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A POCKETFUL 
OF POSES 

BY 

ANNE PARRISH 





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NEW 



YORK 


GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 


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COPYRIGHT, 1923, 

BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 





©C1A696G73 

A POCKETFUL OF POSES. I 


PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 

MAR-5 "23 


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To CHARLES 

for you, my dear Charles, I do not even ash 
you to like this tale /*— Robert Louis Stevenson. 


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CONTENTS 


Part I: Mrs, Trent^s House 

CHAPTER 

I MARIGOLD.. . . . 11 

II POSING FOR DONALD.18 

III TEA IN THE DRAWING ROOM .... 26 

IV UNDER THE MOON.32 

V MUDDLE.45 

VI MARIGOLD PUTS ON HER WEDDING-GOWN 

AND TAKES IT OFF AGAIN .... 62 

VII PANIC.86 

Part II: Mrs. Boynton^s House 

VIII POSING FOR MRS. BOYNTON .... 105 

IX COLLAPSE.122 

X GEORGE.134 

XI KNITTING, SERVANTS, SALVIA, AND THE 

NEIGHBOURS.153 

XH PROPOSAL.166 

XIII CONSEQUENCES . . '.181 

XIV STORMY NIGHT.193 

XV BLUE SKY AND THE RECTORY PARLOUR . 204 

vii 











Contents 


Vlll 


Paet III: Mrs, Bellamy's Home 


CHAPTER PAGB 

XVI MRS. BOYNTON^ MRS. CAMPBELL, MRS. 


MEARS, THE MISSES HALL, MRS. MAR¬ 
SHALL, MRS. MASON, MISS PATTERSON, 
AND MISS QUACKENBUSH GIVE THEIR 


XVII 

OPINIONS. 

ECSTASY . 


• 

• 

221 

235 

XVHI 

DINNER AT MISS ARCHIBALD’S 

• 

• 

246 

XIX 

POSING FOR HUGO .... 

• 

« 

260 

XX 

SUNDAY NIGHT SUPPER . 

• 

• 

274 

XXI 

TELLING THE TRUTH TO GEORGE 

• 

• 

292 

XXII 

POSING FOR MARIGOLD 

• 

• 

309 






Paet I: MRS. TRENT’S HOUSE 


« 


Part I : Mrs. Trent’s House 


CHAPTER I 

MARIGOLD 

T he guiding impulses of Marigold Trent’s na¬ 
ture were politeness and a feeling for the 
dramatic. 

She could not bear to disappoint people; and if 
there was a choice between a graceful pretence and 
an awkward truth, it was the truth that suffered. 
She was not consciously dishonest. She seldom told 
a lie in so many words, and when she did she was 
truly unhappy and remorseful afterwards. That is, 
if the lie had been unkind. If it was kind, en¬ 
couraging, or flattering, it did not count as a lie. 

She would take a few tepid words of approba¬ 
tion and serve them up, smoking hot and richly 
garnished, to a delighted recipient. Hardly ever 
was she found out. One is not apt to go to an 
acquaintance and say: “I hear you said I was per¬ 
fectly fascinating, and that you could listen to me 
all day because my voice sounds like a brook”; nor 
to be met with the reply: ‘‘No, I said you seemed 
nice enough, and had a pleasant voice.” 

II 


1 


12 A Pocketful of Poses 

Marigold thought about herself a great deal, a 
not unusual state of affairs. She was almost always 
dramatizing herself, part of her, actress; part of 
her, audience. Even the most prosaic actions took 
on a shining interest when she thought of herself 
as someone in a book doing those things. “Marigold 
tied a white apron over her dress of bright violet 
print,” she would say to herself, “and carried into 
the pantry the plates with their amber streaks of 
marmalade, and half-empty tumblers beaded with 
tiny crystal bubbles.” (Surely more charming than 
to say “the dirty breakfast dishes.”) “The crumbs 
she saved for the robins who would come to the 
snowy window-sills this bitter day; for Marigold 
loved all little helpless things, and they loved her.” 
And so on, through every step of her work as she 
cleared the breakfast table. Or, “Marigold walked 
on through the rain, her rosy face wet and shining. 
The rain pitted the puddles and drummed on her 
big umbrella.” She could always see herself; and 
even when she was in real trouble or pain, there was 
a little part of her left to look on. 

She loved to be approved of, although like many 
people who are most wistful of approbation she 
really believed that the opinions of others did not 
matter to her. She was always planning to adopt 
a course, rather vague in her own mind, of doing 
exactly as she pleased, regardless of a shocked 
world. What those startling and untrammeled ac- 


Marigold 13 

tions would be she had not decided. She could 
only think of cigarettes and jade earrings, both 
rather tame, and running away with a married man, 
for which she had not the material. Meanwhile, 
she pursued an outwardly unexciting life, and was 
thought well of by old ladies for her pretty manners. 

One day when Marigold was five years old, she 
was peeping into the mauve bell of a foxglove spire 
taller than herself. Her mother, seeing her absorbed 
little face, said softly to a friend: “She sees the 
fairies, you know.’’ 

Marigold knew perfectly well that what she was 
watching was a spider, but she could not disappoint 
her mother, and when the friend asked what she 
was looking at, she replied: “A darling little fairy 
with a little green cap.” 

The ladies were charmed—so, indeed, was Mari¬ 
gold, who in time almost believed that she had seen 
a fairy, and achieved great distinction among other 
more every-day little girls. 

When Marigold was fourteen, all her emotions 
had turned towards religion, and she used to creep 
into Ellen the maid’s room and gaze with a sort 
of terrified pleasure at two violently colored prints, 
our Lord in scarlet and blue displaying his Sacred 
Heart, flaming and pierced, oozing great drops of 
blood; and the Virgin, with uprolled eyes, clutching 
aside a blue mantle to show a heart from which a 
neat little yellow flame emerged, and around which 


14 A F\ocketful of Poses 

white roses were wreathed. She had made herself 
a prie-dieu from an empty box, a towel, two candles, 
and a vase of flowers which she sometimes arranged 
freshly, but more often allowed to remain until they 
dried up or Ellen grumblingly threw them away. 

She meant to be a nun, and tried the effect of 
a coif with her towel when she dried her hair after 
a shampoo; fasted on Fridays whenever she remem¬ 
bered; and bought a cheap Rosary, which she was 
not at all sure how to use, and which she kept hidden 
in a bureau drawer under a pile of stockings until 
she forgot that it was there. She set herself pen¬ 
ances for her sins—holding her arm out straight 
before her until it turned to prickling lead, keeping 
her head lifted from her pillow, once even tying 
a small piece of sand-paper under her shirt against 
her tender skin. It had all been very young and 
self-conscious and complacent—she had felt superior 
and serene, and when she was confirmed in a small 
white veil she had been supremely conscious of her 
effectiveness. But under it all had burned a real 
little flame of love and faith that remained with 
her all her life. 

Her father had been Laurence Trent, the painter, 
whose studies of flowers—innocent water-colours 
that looked like the work of an inspired child—had 
had a certain vogue among collectors. Her mother, 
that romantic woman, Evelyn Trent, had died when 




Marigold 15 

Marigold was six, and the little girl and her father 
had been close companions, traveling together wher¬ 
ever Laurence Trent’s fancy led him, and living as 
cheaply as possible for he was not a good business 
man, and was apt to let his pictures go for next to 
nothing if he liked the purchaser, or to refuse good 
offers because a collector’s eyes were too close to¬ 
gether, or his nose was the wrong shape. 

‘‘You don’t really need much,” he would tell 
Marigold when funds were low. “Bread and beauty 
is better than bread and butter any day, and costs 
a great deal less.” 

They were perfectly happy together until the 
time came when her father must travel where Mari¬ 
gold could not go as yet, and she was left an orphan, 
and went to live with her father’s mother. 

Mrs. Trent was a charmingly pretty, rosy old 
woman, with pink ribbons on her cap. Those who 
did not know her well said that she was like an 
exquisite bit of Dresden china—a singularly inexact 
description of one who was, to tell the truth, as 
hard as nails. She and Marigold, however, got on 
excellently as a rule. Mrs. Trent only asked to be 
let alone. She also wanted the softest chair, the 
breast of the chicken, the top of the cream in the 
morning, and to go to bed as early as she liked, with 
a hot-water bag, a cigarette, and a novel—prefer¬ 
ably shocking. (Although it was difficult to find any 
shocking enough to shock her.) She wanted these 



16 A Pocketful of Poses 

things, and she got them. But she was a woman 
of breeding and intelligence, and living with her, 
while unemotional, was far from unpleasant. 

She liked comfort better than anything else, 
and ran her household with a simple sophistica¬ 
tion that used up all of her really quite respectable 
annuity as she went along. Her granddaughter had 
nothing, for Laurence Trent’s income from his 
paintings naturally had died with him. Mrs. Trent 
welcomed Marigold, but for no one on earth would 
she have been unselfish enough to live more economi¬ 
cally and save her money. She refused to look for¬ 
ward to a time when she would be dead and Mari¬ 
gold alone and penniless. Mrs. Trent ignored any¬ 
thing unpleasant unless it was actually with her— 
an aching tooth, or an impertinent parlour-maid. 
Then she dealt with the situation briskly and com¬ 
petently, because that was the quickest way to re¬ 
newed comfort. But she would not think of things 
like poverty or death. 

Marigold vaguely planned to earn her own liv¬ 
ing—it seemed to her the appropriate gesture for the 
situation. When she was offered, at an absurdly 
tiny salary, a position as teacher of the very young 
in a little private school run by a friend of the 
family, she insisted on taking it. Her grandmother 
did not object. She thought that it would keep 
Marigold occupied. In her day young ladies had 
busied themselves with wool-work, or Wardian cases 


Marigold 17 

of ferns; now they must teach or write or go in for 
social service; but it was all the same thing—mark¬ 
ing time until life’s real business of matrimony 
should begin. 


CHAPTER II 


POSING FOR DONALD 

T he school-room was flooded with sunlight in 
which the motes were dancing. It lay in 
yellow bars across the small empty desks, and 
touched the blackboard, on which was written in a 
neat round hand: 

“Little pussy-willow, 

Pretty little thing, 

Coming with the sunshine 
Of the early spring.” 

On either side of the blackboard were pinned 
smudgy water-colour studies of pussy-willow sprays. 
On shelves and in the windows were more willow 
branches, milkweed pods containing ‘"seed-babies”, 
dishevelled birds’ nests, and beans on wet blotting 
paper, putting forth pallid shoots. 

Marigold and her pupils were engaged in the 
weekly occupation known as “doing the fish”. The 
aquarium had been cleaned, the pebbles and castle 
and water plants put back, and, amid a good deal 
of splashing, three unfortunate gold-fish and two 
tadpoles were being transferred from bucket to bowl 

i8 


Posing for Donald 19 

by the children whose ‘'deportment” had been most 
nearly perfect through the week. 

"Oo! Fve got Miss Hopper!” shrilled a plain 
little girl in spectacles. (The fish had been named 
by the children for the teachers in the school. About 
the two tadpoles, recent acquisitions, there had been 
strong feeling. As they had come in February, 
the little boys were all for naming them after the 
month’s heroes, George and Abraham: the little girls 
poetically thought of spring flowers, and chose 
Pansy and Violet. As a compromise the tadpoles 
were called Pansy and Abraham.) 

“Don’t say ‘got’, Gladys, say '/ have Miss Hop¬ 
per,” corrected Marigold absently. She was happy. 
The school-room made neat for Saturday and gilded 
with sunlight, the children, interested and good, 
made a picture in her mind of which she was the 
central figure. She saw herself as the young and 
beautiful teacher surrounded by her adoring little 
flock. Stealing a glance at her reflection in the glass 
of the bookcase door, she saw sun-bright hair, 
bobbed like a little boy’s, and turning up at the 
ends; slender body in a myrtle green dress—a daf¬ 
fodil in its gray-green sheath. (So her thoughts 
ran pleasantly.) Her hands looked very white 
against her green frock, as she put them in graceful 
positions. In her voice and in the voices of the 
children sang a note of secret happiness, and a bright 
clear light lay on them all. 



20 


A Pocketful of Poses 

Miss Hopper herself appeared at the doorway. 
Pince-nez attached to a black watered ribbon be¬ 
strode her small red nose; her manly shirt was cov¬ 
ered with bits of paper, on which were written in 
large letters, “Ginevra spoke without permission”, 
“Dwight was tardy”, “Mary Katherine pinched de 
Courcey”. This method of punishment through 
publicity was Miss Hopper’s own invention, and 
did no one any harm. 

“Now, Miss Trent,” she said briskly, “time the 
little friends were trotting.” (Miss Hopper often 
said, “There are no teachers or pupils in my school 
—only big friends and little friends.”) “Say good¬ 
bye to our friends the fishes, and we’ll make our 
good-bye circle. One of the little friends needs to 
use the handkerchief—ah! That is right, Lois! 
Now take hands.” 

“Now our work is over for another da-hay, 

Put away so neatly is our work and pla-hay, 

So goodbye, dear children, may the Lord above” 

(Unreachably above: none of the piping voices quite 
got there!) 

“Keep us while we’re absent with his ten-der love.” 

“Good-bye, Walter.” 

“ ’Bye Miss Hopper; ’bye Miss Trent.” 

“Good-bye, Constance.” 

“ ’Bye Miss Hop; ’bye Miss Trent.” 


Posing for Donald 21 

From the cloak-room came sounds of battle. Miss 
Hopper called sharply: 

''Children! Let’s see if you can’t play-pretend 
you’re little mice, still as still!” 

A sudden silence fell, broken only by a slight 
squeaking, essayed with comic intent by one of the 
mice. Miss Hopper turned to Marigold. 

“Can you come to supper to-night, childie*? Ed¬ 
gar has a friend visiting him and I’m going to ask 
Ada Dunham and her young man—an informal 
frolic-frisk, with just a bite and perhaps a jolly 
little sing afterwards.” 

Miss Hopper prided herself on being, as she put 
it, “Human, if I am an old school-marm.” She 
often used the slang of years ago, and loved to make 
remarks that ended with the tag, “as the boys say.” 
She ran her ridiculous little school in a bright firm 
manner: her two assistants, Ada Dunham and Mari¬ 
gold, were paid almost nothing, but were given to 
understand that all would be made up to them by 
sumptuous gifts when they married and had babies. 
Meanwhile, Miss Hopper out of school hours was 
firmly “just one of the girls” with them. 

Miss Hopper’s small room, where the “frolic- 
frisk” was held that evening, shone with Culture 
and the Larger Life. It was lit by candle-light, 
which was becoming, even if it did make it difficult 
to see just what was going into the creamed oysters 
bubbling in the chafing-dish. On the oatmeal- 


22 


A Pocketful of Poses 

papered walls hung photographs of European cathe¬ 
drals, and, above a bookcase replete with the works 
of Sir Rabindranath Tagore, a sepia copy of Mona 
Lisa. (“We just seem to understand each other,” 
Miss Hopper was fond of saying, pointing to 
Leonardo’s lady. “When I’m feeling all in, her smile 
seems so sad, as if it held all the sorrow of the world, 
it’s almost as if I could hear her saying, ‘I under¬ 
stand, Harriette Hopper—I’ve suffered, too, my 
friend, mod aussL’ But when I’m there with bells 
on, then Mona looks so happy—and, well, she un¬ 
derstands that, too! We’re pretty good pals, Mona 
Lisa and I! But you’ll be thinking I have bats in 
my belfry, as the boys say!”) 

Here and there, in “arts and crafts” green pottery 
bowls full of pebbles, Chinese lilies lifted reluctant 
spikes. (“I may live in one room, or, as I sometimes 
call it, one pill-box, but I must have my wee bit 
garden—'a lovesome thing, God wot!”’ said Miss 
Hopper; and also quoted the bit about white hya¬ 
cinths for your soul rather than extra bread for your 
stomach, which sounds such good advice to one who 
has never been hungry.) 

Above her desk hung Mr. Kipling’s “IF”—“It 
helpsf' she would say simply—and a kindly qua¬ 
train on the subject of assisting lame dogs over 
stiles. 

Miss Hopper herself, in a red tea-gown liberally 
garnished with Roman coins, was stirring the oys- 



23 


Posing for Donald 

ters, her face scarlet with heat and excitement. Her 
nephew, Edgar Hopper, a not unusual youth, ate 
cream cheese sandwiches. Ada Dunham and her 
hance, a bleak young couple with a mutual mild 
passion for “antiques” and “first editions”, were 
having a sedate rapture over a small, dull, but un¬ 
questionably old volume they had found on the 
table. 

Marigold, flushed, sparkling, lovely, mixed salad' 
dressing, and felt the eyes of Edgar’s friend upon 
her. She had never seen a man as startlingly hand¬ 
some. He was very dark (like a Spanish nobleman, 
she decided), with a grave direct unsmiling gaze. 
This gaze, for which, to tell the truth, young Mr. 
Boynton was justly famous, was turned steadily 
on Marigold. There was, perhaps, not much reason 
for turning it on either of the other ladies—Miss 
Hopper, as red as her tea-gown, tasting her cookery 
with ostentatious smacks of relish, or prim Miss 
Dunham in her “beaded georgette”, exclaiming, 
“Kenneth, isn’t this Windsor chair very, very fas¬ 
cinating! By the way, I saw a delightful one at 
Shorter’s to-day I think we might pick up.” (Miss 
Dunham and her Kenneth never acquired anything 
except by the process known as “picking up.”) 

But Marigold in love-in-a-mist blue was worth 
looking at. 

She turned the dressing over the lettuce as Miss 
Hopper began to shout playfully, “Ting-a-ling! 


24 


A Pocketful of Poses 

Ting-a-ling! Supper’s weady, boys and dirls!” As 
she fumbled with the strings of the big apron that 
she felt had added a piquant touch to her floating 
chiffon draperies, Donald Boynton put her hands 
aside and untied the knot. 

“What helpless little hands,” he said protec¬ 
tively. “Now you’re going to sit right here on the 
couch, and I’m going to bring you your supper. 
Here, let me put these pillows behind your back. 
That right?” 

He brought oysters and salad, and they sat side 
by side on the almost-Bagdad draperies that cloaked 
Miss Hopper’s virgin couch during its more public 
hours. 

“All comfortable?” Mr. Boynton inquired. 
“Lean back and rest—poor little thing, you’re tired 
to death.” 

Marigold, who was feeling perfectly fresh and 
lively, immediately became conscious of herself as 
a fragile flower, drooping with delicate fatigue. 
She sighed, nestled into her cushions, gave him an 
appealing smile. 

“How horrid of me to show that I was tired.” 

“I’m very quick at feeling an atmosphere,” said 
Mr. Boynton. “I always have been—sort of a sixth 
sense, I guess. I get people, if you know what I 
mean. People who know have told me I’m very 
psychic.” 



25 


Posing for Donald 

“Oh, yes, I know,’’ said Marigold eagerly. “Isn’t 
that funny—they always tell me -” 

“It’s no credit to me,” broke in Mr. Boynton 
modestly but firmly. “A Hindu chap I happened to 
run into once told me that if I’d only develop my 
latent psychic powers I could do practically any¬ 
thing with them. But that’s meddling with danger¬ 
ous stuff, I always think. Now I can feel you— 
some people are so much more vivid than others— 
now you’re like a little flame. And you’re not very 
happy.” 

Marigold, who was, felt the first stirrings of a 
secret sorrow—a sorrow as yet so secret that she 
herself had not decided what it would be; and when 
he said, “You’re not, are you*?” she replied, “Yes, 
I’m—happy,” in the brave, heart-breaking voice of 
one who lies gallantly. 

Beautiful Mr. Boynton was completely satisfac¬ 
tory. With his dark face dramatically set, he said 
under his breath, but loud enough for Marigold to 
overhear him: 

“My God! Some lucky devil will teach her what 
happiness is some day!” 




CHAPTER III 


TEA IN THE DRAWING ROOM 

I T was delightful to be able to say on the day fol¬ 
lowing Miss Hopper’s party: 

‘"Granny, Edgar Hopper and a friend who’s visit¬ 
ing him may possibly be coming to tea this after¬ 
noon, if you don’t mind.” 

“So thafs why you chose to pick the peach blos¬ 
soms!” said old Mrs. Trent, with some asperity. 
She liked fruit better than flowers, and there was 
only one peach-tree in the garden: besides, the petals 
made a litter on the hearth-rug. Now she shuffled 
her playing cards with a snap, and spread them for 
a new Patience. 

“Granny?” 

“Black on red, but I can’t get at the four.” 

“May I tell Mary we’ll have the fruit cake?” 
“Certainly not! And kindly tell me how I can 
pay attention to the cards while you roar in my 
ear!” 

Marigold was able to dramatize herself into al¬ 
most any role she took a fancy to, but the part of 
adored and adoring granddaughter was one that she 

knew better than to attempt. 

26 


27 


Tea in the Drawing Room 

When her grandmother went upstairs for her 
afternoon nap, Marigold put her finishing touches 
to the drawing-room. The fragile loveliness of the 
peach-blossoms sprayed against the pale green wall 
under the portrait of her beautiful mother, and pots 
of hyacinths scented the air. She looked approv¬ 
ingly at the magazines spread out on the gate-leg 
table —Country Life, The Sketch, The Fortnightly 
Review, and Punch. Others, pleasant for moments 
of mental relaxation, but not quite in the picture, 
she put out of sight among the galoshes in the coat- 
closet under the stairs. Then, frowning delicately, 
she looked along the book-shelves, half drew out a 
volume of Dostoevsky, put it back, selected Chris¬ 
tina Rossetti’s “Goblin Market”, and left it, open 
and face down, with her handkerchief crumpled be¬ 
side it, on the window-seat. It was clear to be seen 
that this afternoon Marigold was going to be ex¬ 
quisitely bred, carefully sheltered, and a little wist¬ 
ful. 

Her costume called for earnest thought. The 
crepe-de-chine, which Granny advised, would look 
too “dressed up”, as if she had wanted to make an 
impression. She put on a short corduroy skirt and 
a jumper, and she would carry her knitted cap, to 
give a look of having just run in from the garden. 

She was ready. The clock downstairs whirred 
and struck five. With thumping heart she listened 
for the bell. 



28 A Pocketful of Poses 

Tea was not particularly successful. Donald 
Boynton assiduously devoted himself to Mrs. Trent, 
under the “lovely, fragile bit of Dresden china’’ 
hallucination, and was so respectful, and so point¬ 
edly kind to the aged that he exasperated her to the 
snapping point. Marigold, after her thrilled antici¬ 
pation, felt rather flat as she sat behind the big 
tea-pot and poured the best China tea into the best 
pink cups. Edgar Hopper ate lettuce sandwich 
after lettuce sandwich with the continuity of that 
mechanical toy. The Rabbit that Eats the Carrot. 
They touched on Paris—the gentlemen had not been 
there; old furniture; gardening; horses (Mr. Boyn¬ 
ton spoke of the joy of feeling a good bit of horse¬ 
flesh beneath him); whether men should wear tan 
socks; French literature, which Mr. Boynton pro¬ 
fessed to delight in. 

Granny, hopeful of new shockers, shot out a 
few questions in excellent French. Mr. Boynton, 
who would gladly have throttled her, flushed darkly, 
and said he feared he had grown rather rusty. 

Coco, the cross and elderly little black dog, sat 
dribbling, his eyes on jammy bits disappearing into 
people’s mouths; Heathcliff and Trillium, the ca¬ 
naries, shouted in their cages. 

Edgar Hopper said he must go. 

“But don’t think you have to come, old top, that 
is, unless you want to,” he said to his friend with 
singular infelicity. 


29 


Tea in the Drawing Itoom 

“May I stay a little longer^” Donald asked Mari¬ 
gold. “Perhaps you would show me the garden.’’ 

“Yes, the garden is at its best in early March,” 
said Mrs. Trent. 

Donald Boynton gave her a murderous glare. 
Marigold hurried him out of doors, Coco mincing 
behind them. 

The air was cold and damp, soothing after the 
hot room heavy with antagonism. The trees and 
the borders were bare, but on the grass under a 
beech-tree a sheet of snow-drops glimmered through 
the dusk. Donald was silent; Marigold spoke ner¬ 
vously : 

“I’m so glad you and Edgar were able to drop 
in. He’s so nice, isn’t he?” 

“Yes, Ted’s a prince of good fellows,” said his 
friend perfunctorily, and lapsed into silence again. 

“I was so glad to have Granny meet you,” went 
on Marigold, the demon of nervousness urging her 
on from banality to banality. 

“Your grandmother seems to be a remarkably 
well preserved old lady,” said Donald regretfully. 

“Miss Hopper-” 

“Oh, my God!” he interrupted. “I didn’t stay 
to talk about Ted and your grandmother and Miss 
Hopper! I go through that devilish hour in there— 
it was, you know it as well as I do—burning up 
for a word with you—and then you bring me out 
here to talk about Miss Hopper! I’m going to do 




30 


A P^ocketful of Poses 

the talking now, and Fm going to talk about us—• 
you and me! Do you know Fm going away to¬ 
morrow? That Fll probably never see you again? 
Not that it matters to you, but it does to me— 
damnably.” 

Her heart stood still. She could not have spoken. 
Indoors, at the tea-table, she had felt disappointed 
in him, irritated by his boasting, his pretense, his 
air of self-satisfaction, slight, but perceptible. But 
now his beautiful face, straining towards her 
through the dusk, was stripped of everything but 
longing; his hungry eyes devoured her. 

“Marigold—would you care if we never saw each 
other again? You’ve got to answer me. Would 
you ?” 

“I—I—” 

“Would you?” 

“I hope we’ll—we’ll see each other again.” 

“We will—we will! There’s something I must 
tell you—not yet. Don’t forget me, little golden 
flame.” He seized both her trembling hands, hurt¬ 
ing them, and kissed the under sides of her wrists 
with hot lips; then swung away through the gath¬ 
ering darkness. 

Marigold, her heart leaping in her breast, saw 
the folded snow-drops through a dazzle of tears. 
She shut her eyes to see his face again. She lifted 
her wrists to her lips and kissed where he had kissed. 

Donald unfortunately had left his gloves at Mrs. 


31 


Tea in the Drawing Room 

Trent’s, and did not realize it until he was half way 
back to Edgar Hopper’s. They were new gloves, 
English, and expensive, and he considered going 
back for them. But his parting with Marigold had 
been too perfect to run the risk of any touch of 
anti-climax. Besides, she might find them and send 
them to him. 

However, it was Mrs. Trent who found his 
gloves, and, having made up her mind as to whom 
they belonged, she made a present of them to the 
black boy who took care of the furnace, carrying 
them to him majestically between gingerly thumb 
and finger, with a slightly averted face. 


CHAPTER IV 


UNDER THE MOON 

D onald came again to visit the Hoppers, and 
before he came he wrote to Marigold: 

“Dear Miss Trent: 

“Prepare yourself for a shock—Pm coming out 
your way next week, and something tells me that 
ril be so near your house most of the time that 
you’ll trip over me going in and coming out. Hope 
the shock of this bad news doesn’t prove too much 
for you! 

“Please notice how good I am, beginning this 
letter ‘Dear Miss Trent.’ You see I want to make 
one large-sized hit, which is the reason for the 
Society touches. But it isn’t as Miss Trent I think 
of you. 

“Yours faithfully, 

“Donald Boynton.” 

He thought that he might be disillusioned when 
he saw Marigold again; but with each meeting he 
found her sweeter, more disturbing. He was aston¬ 
ished at the depth of his feeling for her. He was 
beautiful and emotional; of course he had had his 

adventures. But the girls he had known best were 

32 


< 


Under the Moon 33 

different; perfumed little girls who were consciously 
alluring, sophisticated; who knew how to kiss. Girls 
who could look out for themselves; who never 
awoke in him the protective instinct as this child 
had done, this child with her innocent eyes and her 
skin as smooth and cool as the petal of a flower. 

Marigold made him feel strong, cynical, wise in 
dark knowledge from which she must be shielded. 
At first he loved her because she made him love 
himself. He, like Marigold, was given to posing; 
but Marigold was content to be her own audience, 
while Donald must have someone outside of him¬ 
self to admire and applaud. Marigold was the most 
perfect audience he had ever had. While her lips 
said, “Granny’s quite well, thank you,” or, “The 
children were so naughty this morning!” her eyes, 
her hands, the droop of her sun-bright head, said: 

“How strong and wise you are! How weak and 
inexperienced you make me feel—and yet how safe! 
How wonderful that any one who knows life as you 
do should care to talk to me. Be patient with my 
weakness and simplicity, you who have so much 
strength and knowledge to spare.” 

What her mind was saying was: “I wonder— 
I wonder. Am I falling in love? Is this it? Going 
hot and cold when I hear his name or see his writing 
—is that being in love? Sometimes I feel as if I 
would rather die than ever sec him again. Surely 
I would know if it was love.” 


34 A Pocketful of Poses 

Love, love, love. It spun in her brain like a 
humming top. The books said a woman never 
really loved until after she was married. It would 
be wonderful to be married, anyway, and begin to 
live: an unhappy marriage would be better than 
none at all. 

Love seemed to her an impersonal shimmer of 
rose and gold. She had always seen herself rever¬ 
ently adored, tenderly cherished, by a dim shape 
whose features changed from day to day as she met 
new men or read new books. She herself took no 
great part in these mild dreams, beyond remaining 
pure, exquisite, and inspirational. Love seemed to 
her more or less like a nice bath—pleasantly warm, 
but not hot enough to hurt: punctuated at proper 
intervals by a ring, a cloudy wedding gown, and 
three or four fat pink babies with big blue eyes—or 
two with blue and two with brown, if their poten¬ 
tial father was dark at the moment. 

She was ready for love, and Donald was there. 

She tried to analyze her feelings toward him. 
Why did she love him—if she did love him^ He 
was so strong and good looking and sure of him¬ 
self, and he thought that she was so wonderful. That 
was enough, surely. But why was she not quite 
certain? Was it snobbishness? Mrs. Trent had 
asked her, apropos of Donald: “Why need you go 
out of your own class for friends?” Marigold had 
to admit to herself that she would not have been so 



Under the Moon 


35 


indignant if there had been no justice in her grand¬ 
mother’s question. It was disgusting, it was vulgar, 
it was snobbish, to talk about class. But all the 
same, said an inconvenient voice in her mind, his 
language and your language are different—how will 
you talk together? His rules and your rules aren’t 
quite the same—how will you play together? You 
can shout Snob to yourself all day and all night, 
but you know that it is so. 

But if you loved a person, that would be all the 
more reason for love, she told herself hotly. The 
realization that people might think Donald’s birth 
and breeding not all that might be desired made 
her heart turn to his with a passionate glow of 
loyalty and protection. 

She sat in her bed-room, writing to Donald. 

The room was small, the narrow bed nun-like, 
with Guido Beni’s “Ecce Homo” hanging above it 
slightly askew, with a bit of holy palm, presented 
by Mary, fastened at the top. The walls had 
faded nearly white, except where here and there 
pictures had been moved, leaving oblongs brightly 
patterned in bunches of yellow primroses and green 
leaves. In one corner a wigless doll lay in her 
cradle. In the bookcase were “The Robber Kit¬ 
ten” and “Puff the Pomeranian”, and the deathless 
works of Miss Alcott and Miss Susan Coolidge, 
with whose ingenuous tales Marigold refreshed her- 


56 


A P^ocketful of Poses 

self during times of mental strain. The room was 
still a child’s room. 

Wrapped in a red bath-robe, Marigold wrote, 
in pencil, in an old copy book: 

“Little House, Tuesday. 

“Dear Don: 

“Thank you for the book.” (“The book” had 
been a bitter blow, being a collection of rather ex¬ 
hausting poems in French-Canadian patois, on the 
order of: 

“Venez ici, mon cher ami, an’ sit down by me—so, 

An’ I will tole you story of ol’ tarn long ago—.” 

Marigold, reading them, had wondered, with an 
unwilling flash of amusement, whether they repre¬ 
sented the French literature to which Donald was so 
devoted.) “I am looking forward so much to read¬ 
ing it, and you were kind to think of me. 

“Nothing happens here, you know. At least, 
nothing that would interest you, although when I 
come to think of it, there are several happenings 
most thrilling to me. The lawn is all starry with 
crocuses, for one thing, with bees crawling in and 
out of them; I am writing this under the beech-tree, 
with the sun all warm and golden, and Coco stalking 
the fat robins he never can catch. You never saw 
such fat robins, with bright scarlet waistcoats, all 
dressed for their weddings. 

“Then there’s been a tragedy. Miss Trent, the 
gold-flsh (I told you about the gold-fish at school, 
didn’t I? And the babies named this one after me, 


Under the Moon 37 

the lambs) is no more. We buried her in a choco¬ 
late box, with dandelions atop,” 

(Here she turned a page, and the copy book im 
terposed: “Lives of great men all remind us We 
can make our lives sublime.” Marigold continued:) 
“and little Felix Hunt wrote this poem for the 
occasion: 

‘Here lies Miss Trent 
We are sorry she went 
She is now with the angels on high 
But our own darling Miss Trent who has legs instead 
of a tail is still alive and oh how happy am I’ 

“Imagine my feelings of pride! 

“I must run to Granny—she is calling for me to 
come and read to her. 

“Sincerely your friend, 

“Marigold Trent.” 

She read over her letter; it seemed to show her 
in a satisfactory light. She copied it in ink, absently 
wrote: “Marigold Boynton—Mrs. Donald Boyn¬ 
ton”, on a bit of paper; tore that into tiny pieces, 
put out the light, and went to bed. 

Donald wrote to Marigold: 

“Marigold dear: 

“You don’t know what your letters have meant 
to me—perhaps I can tell you some day. 

“I am pegging away—doing pretty well at that. 
But you can’t have an idea of the strain a man’s 
under, the tough thing a man’s life is. Thank 
God you can’t, pray God you never will! You 




38 A Pocketful of Poses 

were made to be sheltered, like some lovely flower, 
and it hurts to think of you slaving for those kids, 
and being so sweet and thoughtful with your grand¬ 
mother, with never a thought for yourself. I get 
all kind of choked up when I think about it. 

“I enclose a snap-shot of myself, just to make 
you laugh. The black thing is the little mother, 
but she moved, so you can't see what she looks like. 
She's a mighty fine little proposition, and I want 
you two to get together. In lots of ways you re¬ 
mind me of each other. That thing we are standing 
under is an arbor covered with crimson rambler 
roses, which would certainly appeal to you, with 
your love of flowers and things artistic. 

“I have been going to a lot of parties lately, but 
somehow the girls all seem sort of lemons. Guess 
I'll give up this society stunt. There's nothing in 
it for me any more. 

“If things break right. I'm coming to your town 
next month. Can I see you then. Marigold? I love 
to write your name—Marigold. There's something 
I want to tell you. 

“Yours, 

“Don.” 

“Marigold! Marigold!” 

He came, and they went for a walk, to get away 
from Mrs. Trent; but something was wrong; they 
were far away from each other. Their voices, 
sounding strange to their own ears, called in vain 
across the gulf, saying words. She hated him 
as she saw his mouth take on a self-consciously 
cynical curve; and he felt her grow hard against 


Under the Moon 


39 


him, and hated her. But still they called to each 
other, remembering the wonder they had felt when 
their thoughts had run together; and trying to con¬ 
quer the weight and deadness of the spiritual at¬ 
mosphere. 

“It’s wonderful to see you. Marigold,” he said 
unconvincingly. 

“And it’s so nice to see you” she answered in 
a bright artificial voice. The subject was finished. 

“Tell me all about yourself,” she began again, 
still speaking brightly and artificially, sounding like 
a hostess who does her duty by a dull guest. “What 
have you been doing since you were here before?’^ 

“ ‘Tell me all about yourself’! Heavens, Mari¬ 
gold, what a conversational opening! It’s as stupe¬ 
fying as having some one say to you, T’ve always 
heard how amusing you are —do say something 
amusing!’ It isn’t worthy of you.” 

“I’m sorry you don’t like my way of talking, 
Don,” she said, in a gentle, martyred tone that 
made him long to shake her. Instead, he said: 

“I may be going to Russia soon.” 

“Really?” she replied politely, perfectly aware 
of the fact that the idea had only that moment 
entered his head. The trick of announcing an im¬ 
minent absence was too old and obvious to impress 
her; she had too often used it herself. 

“You sound as if you would be overcome with 
grief!” 


40 A Pocketful of Poses 

“Of course I would be sorry to have any of my 
friends go so far away; but it would be a wonder¬ 
ful experience for you, wouldn’t it?” 

He gave a mirthless (and melodramatic) laugh. 

“It’s fortunate that I have a sense of humour!” 
he said bitterly. They walked on in hostile silence 
broken by banal remarks. At her gate again, Mari¬ 
gold said: “Won’t you come in and have some 
tea? Granny would be delighted.” 

“No, thanks, I promised Ted to be back early. 
We’re dining out before some dance at the Club, I 
believe. Will I see you there?” 

“Yes, I think so.” She longed to have him gone, 
she was so afraid that she would begin to cry. 
What had happened between them? They neither 
of them knew, only they were hard, and withdrawn 
from one another. 

She dragged herself upstairs, trying with deep 
sobbing breaths to lift the unhappiness that lay like 
a crushing, choking weight on her chest and lungs. 
Her eyes smarted with tears; and her whole body 
was tense and aching. But her hardness against him 
had melted, and she longed to have the old under¬ 
standing, to have him caring for her again. She 
would see him to-night; perhaps then everything 
would be all right again, and they would laugh to 
think how silly they had been that afternoon. 

After dinner, with Granny safe in bed, she dressed 
for the dance, dawdling over her dressing, for she 


41 


Under the Moon 

wanted him to be there when she arrived. She 
lay in a deep, hot bath, growing relaxed and soothed; 
cold-creamed herself liberally; dusted on powder— 
her part to-night was a pale and touching one, and 
she noted with satisfaction the faint blue shadows 
beneath her eyes; brushed her bright hair until every 
tendril glistened. Her gown was white and gleam¬ 
ing, and behind her little ears she had dabbled ex¬ 
pensive scent, saved for tremendous occasions. She 
felt like a satin-white orange-blossom bud, precious 
and suave. 

When she saw Donald, the strange separation 
would have melted away. She even planned a 
little scene between them. She would say, in a shy, 
charming voice: “Don—I forgive you!” and when 
he asked: “For what^’’ she would reply with wist¬ 
ful gaiety: “For my having been so horrid to you 
this afternoon!” Then he would say- 

She would leave it to him, what he would say! 

Although she was late in reaching the Club, Don¬ 
ald’s party was not yet there. But in the dressing- 
room she came into the midst of a conversation 
about him. 

“If I hadn’t a beau already, I certainly would 
go after him,” announced Conny Grange, who was 
engaged to be married. “I think he’s the most 
marvellous looking thing that ever struck this 
town.” 

“Well, he agrees with you,” said another girl. 




42 


A Pocketful of Poses 

‘‘Yes, I guess he does. But Pinky visits where 
he comes from and she says the girls there are 
crazy about him. Hello, Marigold; oh, my dear, 
what a darling dress. Pm crazy about it!’’ 

“Hello, Conny—hello, Anita—Eleanor—every¬ 
body.” 

“We’re talking about the beautiful Boynton— 
he’s giving you a rush, isn’t he?” 

''Mercy^ no!” 

“Oh, isn’t he? I heard he was rushing some one, 
but perhaps it was Ethel. I guess it was, he was 
there for lunch, and they’re all there for dinner 
to-night.” 

“Did Pinky say what his family was like? He 
isn’t guite^ is he?” Anita Steele asked. 

“She said he had an awful ma who wasn’t even 
quite quite, and thought all the girls were after 
him, but that he gets asked everywhere.” 

“Oh, well, my dear, you know. A manT 

“Mrs. Hopper told Mother he plays a wonder¬ 
ful game of bridge, and of course that makes him 
solid with the older women. And then he’s awfully 
conceited, but he certainly can-dance—o-oh!” 

“Bet you anything Ethel doesn’t let any one else 
have a look-in.” 

“My dear. Pinky says a girl where he lives says 
he has a wider variety of kisses than any other 
living man! Don’t you love it?” 

Marigold felt sick. The dance was dull and 




43 


Under the Moon 

tiring, and Donald had not yet come. If he had 
really wanted to see her, he would have been there 
long before this, Ethel or no Ethel. She stayed a 
little longer, hoping that he would come and ask 
her for a dance, so that she could say: 

‘'Oh, I’m so sorry, Don, I haven’t one left—but 
if you want to cut in sometime-” 

But he did not come, and presently she went home 
with a neighbour. 

She tore off her gleaming gown, and lay on the 
bed in a huddled heap, crying as if her heart would 
break. It was long after midnight when she heard 
a soft whistle under her window—heard it again 
and again. Looking out she saw Donald standing 
there in the moonlight, and her heart gave such a 
leap that she nearly fainted. 

“Marigold!” he called softly: “Come down— 
just a minute—please—please! I must speak to 
you!” 

“Don! Go away! I can’t possibly come down!” 

“I must speak to you. I won’t go away until 
you come. I’ll break in to you if you won’t come 
down to me.” 

She put on some clothes, shaking so that she 
could hardly fasten them, crept down the stairs, and 
let herself out into the moonlit garden. 

“Don—we’re crazyT 

“Come where we won’t be heard!” 

There was a little orchard behind the garden. 



44 


A Pocketful of Poses 

drenched with moonlight and the scent of apple- 
blossoms. He wrapped his coat around her. 

“Little Marigold—you’re trembling! You’re not 
afraid of me, are you, sweet? I couldn’t sleep, 
could you? Could you. Marigold? After this 
damnable afternoon—and then when I got to the 
dance, you were gone. Marigold, tell me it’s all 
right! Why, my darling, you’re crying.” 

“I thought you hated me,” she sobbed. 

“Oh, you little donkey!” His arms were around 
her, his lips on her hair, her neck, her wet face. 
“Look at me, my lamb! Oh, Marigold! I love you, 
I love you, I love you!” 

They kissed again and again, clinging to each 
other under the moon-silvered trees. He said in a 
broken voice: 

“I thought that I had lost you.” 

“What happened to us this afternoon, Don?” 

“God knows—I don’t! But it was hellish.” 

Spent with the day of emotion, she lay exhausted 
in his arms, until presently he said: 

“Now you must go in, my little white angel of 
God. But before you go in, tell me again that 
everything is all right. Tell me that you love me.” 

“I love you, Don.” 

“And you always will. Say you always will— 
darling—darling- 

“Always—always- 







CHAPTER V 


MUDDLE 

T he night she told Donald that she would 
marry him, Marigold lay on her bed as if she 
lay on a golden cloud. The darkness seemed to 
shine, to blossom with stars. She lay trembling and 
thrilling, remembering the long slow smouldering 
look, almost as if he hated her, that he had given 
her as he drew her to him before his first kiss—re¬ 
membering the kiss, delicate, gentle, slow, at first, 
then clinging, burning, as if he drank her whole 
being into himself through it. She lay until morn¬ 
ing, her eyes wide, trembling, drowning in the 
memory of his passion. 

But when Don went home, other people became 
visible, as the stars appear again when the sun is 
no longer in the sky. Granny appeared, decidedly. 
She detested Donald and disapproved thoroughly of 
the engagement. She and he showed an armed 
neutrality to each other when they were together; 
but, when they were apart, each poured views of 
the other into the ears of the harassed Marigold. 

Donald was desperately in love, and pleaded for 
an early marriage. 


45 



46 A Pocketful of Poses 

“Won’t you just come away somewhere, just the 
two of us, and be married. Marigold? What do 
you care for a satin dress and chicken salad, and a 
lot of old fools gaping at you, and getting a maudlin 
thrill out of the way you’re feeling and the way 
I’m feeling, when it’s none of their damned business 
what we’re feeling? Just you and I, and then we’d 
go to a place I know where there’s a cabin by a lake, 
under the pine trees, with not a soul but us two for 
a hundred miles. There’s a waterfall where a stream 
comes into the lake—you could bathe there, my 
little white beautiful! And there’d be fish in the 
brooks, and wild berries to gather together. And 
then it would get dark, and there’d be little night 
noises, and the lake slapping on the shore, and 
the stars would come, millions of them. I’d have 
made you a bed of balsam boughs, baby. We’d sit 
on the doorstep looking at the stars awhile—and 
then I’d take you into the cabin—oh, Marigold! 
Darling, darling! Say you will. Who knows what 
may happen if we wait? Come with me, darling!” 

But Marigold shook her head. “It would kill 
Granny.” 

“Not it!” said her lover in tones of the utmost 
conviction. He had completely recovered from 
the Great Dresden China Illusion. 

“Don, I can’t. I’m all that Granny has in the 
world, and she’s so old. You and I love each other. 
We ought to be satisfied with that,” said Marigold, 


Muddle 47 

who was at the moment undergoing a severe attack 
of nobility. 

‘‘Oh, damn Granny! Fm sorry, Sweetheart, I 
shouldn’t have said that. But she’s had her life.” 

The age-old cry of youth. 

Marigold let him rage against old Mrs. Trent, 
who, it must be admitted, did what she could to 
make life unbearable for him; even agreed with 
some of his opinions, for it was so much pleasanter 
to be called “an understanding little pal,” and to 
have the effect of complete sympathy. But when 
she was alone she felt wretchedly that she had 
betrayed Granny for a stranger. Curiously, she 
did not think so much of Mrs. Trent as she knew 
her now, but as she had been when she was Mari¬ 
gold’s age. She seemed actually to see her, mak¬ 
ing ready for bed in an old house where the ivy 
tapped against the windows. She saw her long 
full night-gown with white ribbons tying it-at her 
smooth throat, her hands spraying delicately from 
the frilled sleeves, as she wrote to her lover, her 
brow under her bands of satin-smooth hair young 
and smooth and defenceless. Thinking of her. 
Marigold seemed to see the past through a mist of 
yearning tenderness—crinolines swelling and sway¬ 
ing; little silky heads; slender hands holding small 
flat bouquets of white and scarlet japonicas; splen¬ 
did young men in blue coats and grey beaver hats— 
all so young and innocent and defenceless, not really 


48 A Pocketful of Poses 

knowing that some day they would be old, and love 
would be over. She felt that in betraying Granny 
she was betraying all that gentle past. She tried 
to put her feelings into a letter to Don. He an¬ 
swered : 

“Can’t say I exactly get you on the subject of 
ye olden days, dear. I like old things as much as 
anybody, in fact some of the best scouts I know 
are the fathers of fellows I was in college with, 
but when it comes to you and me waiting patiently 
to be married until your grandmother sees fit to 
say when (which won’t be soon, believe me), just 
because some old-time people once wore hoop skirts 
and high hats and sang The Blue Alsatian Moun¬ 
tains—I’m damned if I can see any sense! You 
know I’d love every word you wrote, sweet, if it 
was the multiplication table backward, but your 
lover isn’t a poet—he’s just a man who wants his 

girl." 

Ada Dunham was inclined to be confidential, 
now that Marigold was also an engaged girl. They 
had taken the little friends to the woods for a picnic, 
and to stalk their little friends, the birds, and their 
little friends, the plant babies, and for the moment 
they were alone together, laying out paper plates of 
hard-boiled eggs and jam sandwiches on the uneven 
table-cloth, while in the distance Miss Hopper’s 



Muddle 


49 


voice could be heard brightly holding forth to the 
little friends on the subjects of Mother Earth, 
Brother Brook, Sister South Wind, Little Hepatica, 
and the Fern Babies. 

“Mr. Thompson,’’ confided Ada (so she would 
have spoken of her fiance to his own mother. Mari¬ 
gold thought), “thinks Mr. Boynton is so very, very 
delightful. A gentleman in every sense of the word, 
he said, he did really, and Kenneth—Mr. Thomp¬ 
son—is very critical. Mr. Boynton may take it as 
a real compliment, for Mr. Thompson doesn’t often 
volunteer a good opinion, really he doesn’t. Not 
that he is uncharitable. Miss Trent, I don’t mean 
that^ for he isn’t, he’s the most charitable man I 
ever knew, and gentle as a woman. But if he can’t 
conscientiously say anything good about any one, 
why, he just says nothing at all. I think it’s a 
lovely trait, I really do. He has a poem pinned 
over his desk, I tell him really it’s very, very char¬ 
acteristic, it goes: 

“ ‘There’s so much good in the worst of us, 

And so much bad in the best of us-’ ” 

“When do you expect to be married*?” asked 
Marigold. She wondered if Kenneth—Mr. Thomp¬ 
son—longed for his Miss Dunham; if her heart leapt 
with fascinated terror when she thought of belong¬ 
ing to him. When they kissed, what did they do 
about Mr. Thompson’s glasses*? Did he remove 



50 A Pocketful of Poses 

them, placing them out of harm’s way on the man¬ 
tle-piece, before he saluted his Ada? Did they kiss 
at all? Had any one ever kissed, except Don and 
Marigold—flaming into fire, melting into mist? 

Many times Don’s voice and hers joined in the 
great chorus that goes up at every hour of the 
day; from under the flowering chestnut trees of 
France; across the snows of Russia; beside mountain 
waterfalls; from desert sands; in porcelain pagodas 
and Esquimau igloos; and under jungle tree- 
ferns: “We are different, you and I. No one has 
ever loved as we love—^no one has ever felt what 
we are feeling.” 

''Mercy!'^ cried Miss Dunham. “The salt for 
the eggs is all over the chocolate cake! What was 
that you said. Miss Trent? Oh, yes, why—not for 
two or three years, I hardly think. Mr. Thompson 
and myself want to pick up our furniture gradu-* 
ally, you know, all early American, we really have 
some very, very delightful old pieces. Miss Trent, 
we’d be only too pleased to show them to you some¬ 
time when Mr. Boynton was on. Mama and I 
would be more than pleased if you and he would 
drop in to afternoon tea very very informally some 
day. Mr. Thompson wouldn’t be one bit happy 
with just any furniture, he’s really very sensitive to 
his surroundings, so we thought we’d take our time. 
He really has wonderful taste. Miss Trent, it isn’t 
just because we’re engaged I’m saying that, but 


Muddle 51 

really. I guess probably Mr. Boynton’s that way 
too, isn’t he^ And then anyway, we couldn’t be 
married for a long time, because I’m embroidering 
three dozen of everything with my monogram, 
A. V. D.—^Ada Veta Dunham, you know—and I do 
think dainty linen’s so important, don’t you^ Of 
course, I had some things in my Hope Chest before 
Mr. Thompson and myself became engaged, some 
dainty little guest towels-” 

The little friends, looking slightly stupefied as 
the result of a plethora of bird calls, appeared, 
shepherded by Miss Hopper, giving her cele¬ 
brated imitation of a dinner bell. She murmured 
in a confidential aside to Marigold: 

“I know what the girlies were chattering away 
about! Their ain true loves! Oh, I may be an 
old school-marm, but I’m on, as the boys say!” 

June came, with summer holidays, and straw¬ 
berries for breakfast. In the afternoons Mrs. Trent 
and Marigold had tea in the garden, while copper- 
pink petals from the climbing sweet-brier rose 
drifted into their cups, and Coco tried to climb the 
fox-glove spires, or with tiny officious barks ordered 
vagrant butterflies off the premises. Marigold’s 
letters to Don became corpulent with flora—pressed 
pinks, bits of lavender. 

There were letters for Marigold. Mrs. Boyn¬ 
ton, the little black thing who had moved, in the 



52 


A Pocketful of Poses 

photograph taken under the rose-arbour, wrote on 
mauve paper embellished with a huge gilt E, that 
had apparently begun to sprout and put forth little 
golden twigs and tendrils: 

“—and I feel as if instead of losing a son I was 
gaining a daughter. Donald and I have always been 
so close, it’s always ‘Little Sweetheart’ here and ‘My 
Best Girl’ there, and another of his names for me is 
‘Little Chum O’ Mine’, so you see maybe I’ll be a 
teeny-weeny bit jealous of his new ‘Best Girl’! But 
I just know I shall love you from what Son tells me, 
and also from the way you look in the pretty snaps 
with your dear little dog Cocoa which my boy 
showed me. Donald has always been such a popular 
boy, lots of girls would like to be in your place, but 
the best of it is that with all his looks and popular¬ 
ity, I send my boy to you clean -” 

A girl miles away cried all night, bathed her red 
eyes, powdered her nose, and wrote: 

“Nobody knows better than I do what a fine 
fellow Don Boynton is, and I wish you both all 
the joy in the world. Give my best to Don the 
next time you see him. It’s quite a coincidence, 
isn’t it, that after having been pals for ages^ as Don 
and I have been, we should be announcing our en¬ 
gagements at just about the same time^? I wish I 
might meet you, but I’m afraid I will be married 




Muddle 53 

and moved away before you come here to live, from 
what Don tells me.” 

Miss Hopper, spending the holidays in an artistic 
colony on the coast, wrote: 

“—so sorry you won’t be with us at the School 
this winter, but of course I know that Prince Charm¬ 
ing of yours wants to carry you off as soon as ever 
he can. My, my if he only knew all I do! But 
don’t worry, I won’t give you away! 

“Of course, this is just my fun, but, joking aside. 
Lady Mine, will you let the old school-marm give 
the little Bride one wee sma’ word of advice*? I 
just want to remind you of the two animals that 
should be in every little new Home—Bear, and 
Fore Bear! And then there’s a sweet old saying, 
‘As your wedding ring wears, your cares will wear 
away’, and I know the little girl will find it’s true 
as well as sweet. 

“This is a delightful place, wonderfully worth¬ 
while people, all gifted with what I have dubbed 
The Three P’s—Personality, Purpose, and ‘Pep’. 
They are always doing such real things, making the 
quaintest arts-and-craftsy jewelry, or batiks, or stag¬ 
ing plays in one of the fish-sheds here. I found a 
little hand-hammered bon-bon spoon at the quaintest 
little tea-room and gift-shop, ‘Ye Signe of Ye Bay- 
berrie Candle’, which I’m hoping you’ll find a use 




54 A Pocketful of Poses 

for in the new little home. You would revel in it 
here, with your keen sense of the artistic, such at^ 
mosphere -” 

A seamstress wrote: 

‘‘Am sending the six night-gowns with the tucking 
and scalloping, must say they look real well, they are 
so sheer and pretty. Ran the pale pink ribbon in to 
get the effect. You and your grandma have always 
been so kind to me, am glad to have the chance to 
work on your trousseau. Will start work to-morrow 
on the chemises.” 

Don wrote: 

“I can’t stand it much longer, sweet. I’ve got to 
have you. I lie awake at night with my arms ach¬ 
ing for you, dreaming of the time when they will 

I 

hold you. I’m mad for you. Marigold. You ask 
me why I can’t be patient—you darling little fool, 
don’t you know why I can’t be^ Don’t you^?” 

She carried that letter inside her blouse, and slept 
with it beneath her pillow. But she was not very 
happy, as time went on. 

Granny was difficult, for one thing. When Don, 
prompted by Marigold, sent her a box of sweets for 
her birthday, she expressed hearty astonishment that 
he should have known enough for the civility. He 
could do nothing civilized or pleasant without call- 



Muddle 


55 


ing forth fervent exclamations of relief and surprise 
from old Mrs. Trent. When Marigold defended 
him, with wet eyes and flaming cheeks, her grand¬ 
mother would sulk, or, like natives of India, “go 
into the silence.’’ 

But that was unimportant compared with Mari¬ 
gold’s own feeling towards Don. While he was 
away from her, she was happy. She could shut 
her eyes and feel his lips on her eyelids, see his dark 
face, the flash of his white teeth when he laughed. 
A thousand times a day she turned to him. In 
shops, at lunch with Granny, letting Coco into the 
garden for his bed-time run, paying a dull call— 
suddenly the thought of Don somewhere, loving her, 
would spring up like a flame and leave her trembling. 
A thousand times she would say to herself: “Don 
will laugh at that!” or “Don will understand.” 

The difficulty was that often Don neither laughed 
nor understood. 

She told herself that it was entirely unimportant 
that she and the man she was to marry never thought 
the same things were amusing. But it was daunting 
to have him say, when she had finished telling him 
, a story that seemed to her entrancingly funny: 
“Well, go on. Honey, I’m listening.” Her grand¬ 
mother said: “Your young gentleman tells me his 
sense of humour will get him into trouble one of 
these days. Marigold, but happily I feel that he is 
in no imminent peril.” 


56 


A Pocketful of Poses 

Don was fond of stories beginning: ‘‘Did you 
hear that one about Pat talking to Mike^?” or, “It 

seems there was a Jew named Ikey-” 

Then books. Poor Don! When they were first 
engaged Marigold, eager to share everything that 
made her shining inner life, had showered him with 
the books she loved best. Don said: 

“You’re a funny kid, Honey. All the books you 
like seem to be either sort of fairy tales for children, 
or else these morbid psycho-what’s-its-name stuff 
with everybody analyzing every feeling they ever 
have, and never getting anywhere. Don’t you like 
a book with a plot and a punch Darn it, I like 
books, but I want a story, something to take my 
mind off my troubles. None of your highbrow stuff 
for me—that is, except Shakespeare, of course,” 
he added dutifully. 

“Pooh! Shakespeare! He’s a very much over¬ 
rated author,” said Marigold airily. “Anyone 
could write Shakespeare. I could myself. ‘Fair 
frolic, pop-jowled Kate!’ There’s Shakespeare for 
you in one line, and I made that up! Then when 
you can’t think of anything else to say, just have a 
Fool come on and sing ‘Ding-a-dong, ding-a-dong.’ 
Don’t talk to me about ShakespeareT 

Donald used words and phrases from which Mari¬ 
gold winced away as though they had been blows. 
She told herself that she was morbid, over-fastidious, 
but she braced herself tensely when he boasted to 



Muddle 


57 


her, as he was fond of doing, that he was ‘‘a regular 
he-man”; when he asked her how “the head” was; 
or mentioned “the little mother”; or spoke of “sens¬ 
ing” things. 

His clothes worried her, sometimes. Nothing im¬ 
portant, a belt where a coat would have been better 
plain, a too-fancy touch to an evening waistcoat. 
“Fm as bad as Ada Dunham with her ecstasies over 
Mr. Thompson’s marvellous taste,” she thought. 

Then he recited. 

She had not known about that. They went to 
dinner at Edgar Hopper’s, and afterwards Edgar 
said: “Recite something, old top,” and Don had 
recited. 

He gave them some of Mr. Robert Service’s 
poems, full of strong men and guts and God’s Great 
Out-Doors: he gave them a pathetic-humorous 
dialect poem about his “leetle Rosa”: he gave them 
“Gunga Din”, with gestures, dramatic pauses, enor¬ 
mous quantities of “expression.” It was incredible. 

Marigold felt sick with embarrassment. After¬ 
wards they all motored to a dance. His hand found 
hers as they sat in the back seat of Edgar’s car, he 
laced his fingers through hers. “You didn’t say 
whether you liked the way I recited,” he said. 
you. Marigold? I wanted you to like it.” 

She felt like a grave, tender mother, who with 
protective deception answers her wistful little boy. 


58 A Pocketful of Poses 

But when, reassured, he began to boast, she hated 
him. 

“Funny thing, everyone seems crazy about my 
reciting—Fm just telling you because it appeals to 
my sense of humour, to have them acting as if it was 
something wonderful. I used to think some of going 

on the stage, but I don’t know-. I never took 

a lesson in elocution, didn’t seem to need it, some¬ 
how. I just sort of sense the character, and then I 
feel as if I was whoever’s supposed to be talking. 
Now take that place in Gunga Din where I say-” 

She could only see his face dimly in the star¬ 
light, but she knew how it looked as he talked, the 
complacent lips, the cheeks seeming to grow slightly 
fuller. He was a stranger to her, and she withdrew 
into herself, bitter and hard against him. 

It was the first dance they had been to together. 
People stopped to look at them as they danced, both 
so beautiful, lifting and falling like a wave, his 
dark head bent above her sun-bright one. Marigold 
wore a silvery dress that night, with a close sheath¬ 
ing bodice, and a full skirt that sprang away from 
her slender waist like the skirt of a young Infanta; 
Granny had lent her old-fashioned ear-rings of seed- 
pearls that swayed from her little ears. 

She danced with Edgar Hopper, while Don 
glowered in the doorway. He cut in before the 
dance was over. “Come outside,” he said. 




Muddle 


59 


“Marigold, I don’t want you to dance with any 
one but me to-night.” 

“Why, Don^ that’s crazy!” 

“You haven’t any corsets on. It’s disgusting. 
You don’t know how men talk.” 

“I think it’s you who are disgusting, Don. I 
never wore stays in my life. I don’t for a minute 
believe they think about it one way or the other. 
Everyone isn’t thinking about my body every 
minute —oh -!” 

“And you’ve put rouge on your cheeks.” 

“I haven'tP' said Marigold, who had. 

“And those damned ear-rings—I hate them. 
Everybody’s looking at you. I saw the men’s eyes 
crawling over you like filthy slimy snails.” 

“Well, if that’s the way you feel about me-” 

Her voice shook so that she could not go on. Her 
pride failed her, she burst into tears. His arms 
were around her, he, too, was trembling all over, 
he was murmuring broken words, his lips against her 
hair. 

“Precious Lamb! Oh, forgive me! Marigold, 
Marigold, I’m a damned fool! Speak to me, baby, 
tell me you forgive me. I’m the damnedest rotter 
that ever lived, to say what I did—but God knows 
it’s only because I love you so- My little angel 
from heaven-” 

As he strained her against the hardness of his 
body, she felt herself coming back to him from far 





60 


A Pocketful of Poses 

away. But on another night she sat on the edge of 
her bed and said aloud: 

“I don’t love Don any more. Fve stopped lov¬ 
ing Don.” 

However, unhappy as she was, Marigold was 
Marigold, and as long as she could dramatize her¬ 
self, she could still get some measure of enjoyment 
out of life. In her own room, with the door locked 
against a surprise visit from Granny, she was Mari¬ 
gold the Bride. She put a brass curtain-ring on her 
finger, and whispered to herself: “She wore no 
jewelry except her wedding-ring.” Marigold lifted 
her white hand, bare except for the plain gold band. 
“Young Mrs. Boynton-.” 

She grew thinner and her eyes were big and 
shadowed. She realized, not without satisfaction, 
that she was looking wistful and pathetic. Once or 
twice, when Don was expected, she had added a 
little to the shadows, by means of a burnt cork. She 
would have preferred “violet shadows”, but she felt 
doubtful about the effect of water-colours on her 
skin, and had nothing else to use. Don loved her so 
when she looked fragile and exhausted, and in need 
of protection; and although she no longer loved him, 
she was not ready to have him stop loving her. 

She put pressed pansies and bits of fern and 
autumn leaves into her books of poetry, opposite 
pencil-marked poems about sorrow and selflessness, 



Muddle 61 

which she felt were particularly applicable to her¬ 
self. 

‘Tm bored to death with the pair of you/’ old 
Mrs. Trent said one day, unexpectedly. “You 
mooning about with your eyes as big as saucers, and 
your young man snorting hre from his nostrils. Get 
married as soon as possible. Fll give you my bless¬ 
ing and a check, and go to Paris to live.” 

“Oh, Granny, Pm not in any hurry!” cried Mari¬ 
gold breathlessly. 

“Well, I can’t say I would be either, if I were 
in your boots, but although you may not be, I am. 
I have a chance to sell this house, and I’m tired of 
America. No, let the sacrifice take place as quickly 
as possible. Go and write to your adored one 
that Granny, the Hard-Hearted Monster, has 
yielded to your prayers.” 

A letter from Don was waiting in the hall, as 
Marigold slowly went through it to her room. She 
hoped it would make her less numb; but it was not 
very satisfactory. Young Mr. Boynton had been 
moved to “play-pretend”, as Miss Hopper would 
say, that he was an Indian Rajah, and his Marigold 
a beautiful nautch girl. His letter, a trifle unsound 
geographically, was liberally sprinkled with un¬ 
acknowledged quotations from the little mother’s 
gramophone record of “O Moon of My Delight.” 
Marigold, having read it, felt profoundly depressed. 


CHAPTER VI 


MARIGOLD PUTS ON HER WEDDING-GOWN AND TAKES 

IT OFF AGAIN 

T he wedding was only three days away. 

Marigold, in a panic, felt that it had stolen 
up on her while her attention was distracted by new 
clothes, by gifts, by letters. There it waited, three 
days away. Her wedding-dress had come home, and 
occupied the guest-room bed, spread out in strange 
shining loveliness. The library was full of glass 
bowls and silver hot-water jugs and bronze book- 
ends. Granny had a new gown; and Granny’s 
friend, the Bishop, was coming to marry Don and 
Marigold in three days. Three days. Three days. 

The clocks said it. The dripping tap in the bath¬ 
room said it. Three days. 

Edgar Hopper was to be best man, and Donald 
and Mrs. Boynton were to stay with the Hoppers. 
Mrs. Trent had read Mrs. Boynton’s rather gushing 
letters coldly, and had decided to be too old and 
infirm to have guests stopping in the house. But on 
the way from the train to the Hoppers they were to 
call on her; and on the afternoon of their arrival she 
took to her bed and, from it directed the setting of 
the scene. 


62 


Marigold Puts on Her Wedding-Gown 63 

“The whole effect must be feeble, aged, and 
intensely Christian,’’ she said. “I really am not 
strong enough to have a woman in the house who 
knows she is going to love me without ever having 
laid eyes on me, but on the other hand I don’t want 
to hurt her feelings, so I must look very delicate. 
You’d better put the Degas lady under the bed for 
the moment. Marigold, and lend me one of your 
pictures to put in her place—^something very pure, 
preferably angels, shouldn’t you think? And put 
my dear little books under the bed, too—wait a 
minute, leave out ‘My Past’, and I can pop it under 
my pillow when she comes. Now what by the bed¬ 
side of the Aged Christian, should you say? The 
Bible would be a little too obvious, wouldn’t it? Or 
wouldn’t it?” 

“Oh, Granny!” sighed Marigold, laughing help¬ 
lessly, but heavy-hearted too. 

“A bit obvious. I’m afraid. Thomas a Kempis 

would be better; Thomas a Kempis and my Prayer 

Book, at the back of the bottom bureau drawer, or 

if they’re not there, they’ll be in the guest-room desk. 

And something else, a good solid touch—let me 
}) 

see- 

She lit a cigarette, and considered. “Mrs. Hum¬ 
phry Ward, I think. Yes. We have some of the 
woman somewhere about, haven’t we? Then the 
violets over under Grandpapa’s picture, except for 
one or two in a glass here by me and Mrs. Ward 



64 


A Pocketful of Poses 

and Thomas a K. Just a few flowers by one’s bed 
always look so devout, somehow, although I’m sure 
I can’t say why. Marigold, my dear, it’s perfect! 
I never felt such a Sweet Old Thing in my life. I 
really think I must have the Bishop up to see me 
before we change back to normal, he would be so 
edified. Oh, damn-!” 

“What’s the matter. Granny?” 

“I’ve burnt a hole in my peignoir with this cigar¬ 
ette—never mind. You can’t blame an Aged Chris¬ 
tian for smoking stupidly. Now run off and meet 
your train, and when you bring your belle-mere back, 
all this is going to my head so that you’ll probably 
find me shouting hymns at the top of my lungs.” 

Marigold stood on the station platform and 
watched the train pulling in, while her heart 
thudded sickeningly, and she longed to hide where 
they could never find her again. Why had she come 
to meet this stranger and his mother? She felt 
naked and ashamed, and her knees trembled. Then 
she saw them; Don looking nervous and unfamiliar 
in a new hat, helping his mother down the steps, 
taking bags and hat-boxes from the porter, and not 
seeing her. Gathering all her strength together, 
she went up behind them, and said shakily: 

“Hello!” 

Don turned at her voice. ^'Marigold! Why, 
Honey, I never of thought of such luck as your 




Marigold Puts on Her Wedding-Gown 65 

coming down to the station. Mother! Mother, 
here’s Marigold-!” 

“There was another bag, porter, black leather 
—no, it didn’t have any mark, but you must find it. 
So this is Marigold! Just a moment, dear, the 
porter’s lost my black grip. Donald, the porter’s 
lost my black grip, you must do something about it, 
it has my gloves and my slippers and my aspirin and 
everything —oh, I think that woman has it! Porter! 
Porter! I think that woman has it! Donald, I 
think that woman-” 

Donald tore his eyes from Marigold. “What, 
Mother? Oh, the chauffeur took your bag. Every¬ 
thing’s all right, and here’s Marigold” 

Relieved of anxiety about her luggage, Mrs. 
Boynton kissed Marigold warmly. “So this is 
Marigold!” she said again. “So this is the dear 
little daughter-to-be! Weill Well, here we are!” 

They got into the motor the Hoppers had sent, 
Mrs. Boynton sitting between Don and Marigold, 
holding a hand of each. Under the brown and 
fawn plumes of her hat her big brown eyes were 
tense, and her skin was lined and creased from ner¬ 
vousness. Sitting between her son and his fiancee, 
she was experiencing complex emotions. Love for 
Donald was the greatest, and desire for his happi¬ 
ness, but almost as great was unwilling jealousy of 
Marigold. She would never again be first in the 
heart of her boy, her little baby. Tears of self-pity 




66 


A Pocketful of Poses 

welled into her eyes. She did not realize that she 
had not been first for a good many years. She al¬ 
most hated Marigold; and at the same time, for 
Donald’s sake and for her own appealing sweetness, 
she almost loved her. And over these conflicting 
feelings flowed a stream of surface thoughts that 
poured out into words. 

“I don’t think I should have known you from 
Son’s description, dear. Well! Doesn’t it all seem 
strange! And how is the dear Grandmother? I’m 
ashamed to have her see me this way, I feel so 
messy from the sleeper. I really never shut my 
eyes once last night; just as I’d get used to going 
we’d stop, and then just as I’d get used to stopping^ 
we’d go —oh, mercy! Goodness, I thought the shofer 
was going to run down that dog! My heart’s beat¬ 
ing so! Feel my heart, Donald! What was I tell¬ 
ing you? Oh, yes, the sleeper—oh, Donny, that 
reminds me, how much did you give the porter? I 
hope you didn’t give him more than a quarter, but 
I know you did, you really are foolish about it, and 
they respect you a lot more if you don’t give too 
much—he didn’t deserve anything, he was so saucy 
—Son, tell him not to go so fast! Yes, he is^ it 
makes me so nervous, and besides, it’s my best 
hat-” 

She turned towards Marigold. “Of course my 
^dress is in my trunk, but Miss Lindquist, she’s my 
milliner, advised me to wear my hat -” 





Mangold Puts on Her Wedding-Gown 67 

“It’s a lovely hat,” said Marigold. She felt as 
if she were floating in a dream, far away from 
reality. They reached the house and went in, a man 
and his mother and dreaming Marigold. 

Granny, the Aged Christian, propped up among 
her pillows, looked almost transparent as she wel¬ 
comed them, but she retained enough strength to 
withdraw her hand definitely from Mrs. Boynton’s 
clinging clasp. “Well, here we are!” her guest an¬ 
nounced again. “But we’ll just stay a minute— 
mustn’t tire the Sick-a-Bed-Lady!” (Marigold saw a 
faint spasm cross her grandmother’s face.) “J ought 
to know how to act in a sick-room, if having been 
there enough myself has anything to do with it! 
You can imagine when I tell you I was two months 
in the hospital after my operation, and for one whole 
month they never knew from day to day whether I 
was going to live or die. Dr. Hughes—^he was my 
physician—said to me, ‘You’ve been a very sick 
woman, Mrs. Boynton,’ and I think that means a 
whole lot from a doctor, don’t you, they get so 
hardened to human suffering, of course it’s only 
natural they should, seeing so much of it all around 
them all the time; but I never lost courage, I think 
that has everything to do with it, don’t you, Mrs. 
TrentWhat’s that poem you used to say, Donald, 
about the man who’s worth while is the man who 
can smile when everything goes wrong 

“ 'Dead wrong’,” Don murmured. He looked 


68 A Pocketful of Poses 

tired; traveling with Mrs. Boynton was not too 
easy. 

“Well, I just tried to live up to that—days 1 was 
feeling worst, Fd try to have some little joke or 
riddle or something to say to make the doctor laugh; 
he used to call me his ‘Tonic’, it got to be quite a 
nickname for me. Miss Hoffman, she was my nurse, 
a very sweet girl from Denver, she said to me one 
day, ‘Mrs. Boynton, you’re a regular sermon, al¬ 
ways so cheerful no matter what you’re suffering!’ 
Well, that made me laugh, it was so absurd; as I 
said to Miss Hoffman, ‘Why, Miss Hoffman, it’s 
just what anyone would do.’” 

“You look very well and strong now,” said Mrs. 
Trent unkindly. 

Mrs. Boynton gave a slight annoyed laugh. 
“Well, I may look all right, but you don’t get your 
strength back very soon after an operation like 
mine, you know. There’re some days still when I 
feel so weak, I have sort of dizzy spells, and if I 
overdo Fm just as apt to have to go to bed. Doctor 
Hughes warned me, he said when any one had been 
through the siege Fd been through, they couldn’t be 
too careful about overdoing. You see it was my 
stomach, I couldn’t keep anything on it except 
white of egg beaten up light with a little brandy—”. 
She added a few details. 

“Then Fm sure you should rest now,” said Mrs. 


Marigold Puts on Her Wedding~Gomn 69 

Trent. “It was most kind of you to spare a few 
moments to an old woman-” 

“Old woman!’’ shrieked Mrs. Boynton. “Good¬ 
ness! I hope you don’t call yourself old! Now, 
Marigold, you’ll have to scold Grandma if she talks 
nonsense like that! Why? Mrs. Trent, you’re just 
the image of the dearest little lady at home, you 
know, Donald, Grandma Barrett, and every one 
always speaks of her as being eighty years young^ 

This tactful speech did not seem to have quite the 
cheering effect that was intended. Marigold, catch¬ 
ing Granny’s look of frozen fury, suggested that tea 
would be ready in the drawing-room. 

“Oh, I don’t really care for any tea, dear, it’s 
so late, it would spoil my dinner.” 

“Come and watch us spoil ours, then,” said Don. 
“Come on. Mother, and Marigold will show you 
the wedding presents, won’t you. Honey?” 

“No, you two run along together. I know when 
three’s a crowd, so I’ll just stay and have a nice 
little visit with Grandma.” 

The Aged Christian’s expression said plainer than 
words: “Get her out! Get her out!” Marigold 
tried again: 

“I want to show you my wedding dress, too, Mrs. 
Boynton. And I want to ask hundreds of questions 
about Don.” 

Don pulled his mother out of her chair. “You 
come and see Marigold tackle the tea-pot, Mrs. 



70 A Pocketful of Poses 

F. H. Boynton,” he said. “She’s the greatest little 
tea-pot tipper in the known world. Come on, quick, 
or ril sit on your new hat!” 

“Oh, Donny! Mercy! Isn’t he awful?” she ap¬ 
pealed to Mrs. Trent. “You’ll get a nice idea of 
me^ with Donald pulling me round this way! All 
right, children. I’m coming!” She added in a 
roguish stage whisper: “I just want to tell you I 
think a certain little girl not a thousand miles away 
is one perfect sweetheart^ but don’t you tell her I 
said so!” 

In the drawing-room all three relaxed. Mrs. 
Boynton was induced to take off her hat, and put her 
feet up on the sofa in front of the fire, and even 
accepted a cup of tea: “Very, very weak, dear, three 
lumps and lemon; my tea’s always a great joke at 
home. Remember how Papa used to call it 'hot 
lemonade’, Donny? Well, Marigold, your grand¬ 
mother certainly is a dear little old lady! Wasn’t 
it funny, the way she and I took to each other from 
the start? Some people you do feel that way about. 
I hope she didn’t mind my coming off with you 
children. She’s just like a little Dresden China tea¬ 
cup, isn’t she?” 

Crimson tulips standing in bowls about the room 
caught her attention. “Your flowers are very 
pretty,” she said: “I wonder—no, I won’t say it! 
No, really, it wasn’t anything—oh, I wish I hadn’t 
spoken! But I was just wondering, Donald, if they 


Marigold Puts on Her Wedding-Gown 71 

would just possibly give me my rose-cold—I don’t 
believe-” 

“Oh, ril have them taken out!” cried Marigold. 

“Nonsense, Mother, these aren’t roses. You 
never heard of tulip-cold any more than of geranium- 
cold or violet-cold or—what’s another flower, Mari¬ 
gold?’ 

“Marigold-cold.” 

“Or orchid-cold.” 

“Or lily-of-the-valley-cold.’* 

“Or potato-blossom-cold.” 

“Or anemone-japonica-cold.” 

“Get out! Where does he work? Or—my 
flowers are running out—whole-wheat flour-cold.” 

Mrs. Boynton beamed at them while sentimental 
tears rolled down her cheeks. “Oh, you two dears!” 
she said. “It’s so wonderful to hear you talking to¬ 
gether so sweetly and brightly, it’s just the way you 
said it was. Son! Just go on as if I wasn’t here, I 
love to listen to you!” She settled herself to the 
enjoyment of more brightness. 

Marigold was flooded with embarrassment; and 
yet, out of sight of Granny’s critical eye, she was 
enjoying her new role of the Perfect Daughter-in- 
Law. Sweet and gentle, elated by Mrs. Boynton’s 
approval and Don’s adoration, she poured tea, put 
the fire-screen where it would shield Mrs. Boynton’s 
eyes, laughed at her little jokes, appealed to her for 



72 


A Pocketful of Poses 

advice which she had no intention of taking. When 
Mrs. Boynton dropped a piece of buttered tea-cake 
on her brown satin breast, and dabbed at it with her 
napkin, peering downward with indrawn chin, Don 
whispered to Marigold under cover of his mother’s 
preoccupation: “You’ve certainly made one life- 
sized hit with Mother, you little peaches-and- 
cream.” 

She felt real affection for her. But Granny, re¬ 
joined after the Boyntons had gone, did not share 
her feelings. 

“Lord, what a woman! Give me some strong 
tea—no, really black—with a great deal of rum in 
it. So the doctor said she was his Tonic, did he^ 
I’ll be bound she was, and a good stiff dose, too! 
Pfui! Did you hear the creature being tactful to 
me, in my own house? Eighty years young in¬ 
deed-! How can you stand it, child?” 

“She was nicer downstairs. Granny. She thought 
you were lovely. She liked us so much, and she 
thought we liked her, and she’s so proud of Don. 
It’s quite touching somehow. I liked her, truly-” 

“If you did, it only shows what an unspeakable 
horror you were expecting,” said Granny crossly. 
“Sick-a-Bed-Lady, indeed! Good heavens! She 
really has made me ill. I feel very ill. Tell Mary 
she will have to make me a cocktail before dinner. 
Eighty years young-!” 





Marigold Puts on Her Wedding-Gown 73 

Marigold, alone, after the little glow of excite¬ 
ment had died down, said to herself, as she had said 
a hundred times: 

“I have to tell Don I can’t marry him. Fm afraid 
—Fm afraid—! I can’t marry Don.” 

She had gone through sick days and nights since 
she had faced the fact that she no longer loved Don 
—that she had never really loved him. But what 
she had felt had been a sort of drugged despair. 
She had not been able to bring herself to tell him 
the truth; she could not shake off her life-long habit 
of making the expected gesture, of saying the words 
that would give pleasure. Unfortunately for Don¬ 
ald and Marigold, they had never had a real quar¬ 
rel; and many times when they should have faced 
the truth, when their different view-points, striking 
together, might have kindled a light that would have 
shown them their position clearly. Marigold had 
thought to herself: 

‘We have never quarreled—it would be too ter¬ 
rible to begin now.” 

So she would choose the easier way, answering 
Don softly, hiding her real feelings, agreeing with 
him, sinking back into the soft smothering illusion 
of perfect understanding. 

But now she awoke from her dream. The dull 
pain changed to pangs of keenest torture, as she 
realized that she was not some one in a feverish 
dream, but wide awake in a moving world. She 



74 A Pocketful of Poses 

could not marry Don, and she could not tell him so^ 
Sitting up in bed, holding her hot head with shak¬ 
ing ice-cold hands, she wondered if she was going 
mad. Her dress—the presents coming—the answers 
to the invitations—made it so terribly definite. 

The day before the wedding she and Don were 
alone together in the library. She had said: ‘T must 
show you the lamp that Mrs. Humphreys sent,’’ but 
when they were in the library, they did not look at 
the presents. He drew her down beside him on a 
sofa, and kissed her, slowly, gently, tenderly; she 
thought it was almost as if he were sorry for her. 
Something in her heart said: “You must tell him 
now that you aren’t going to marry him after all.” 

Her voice sounded far away. “Don,” she said, 
“I have to tell you something. I—I can’t-” 

The telephone on the desk at her elbow rang 
officiously. She tried to go on, but it was impossible. 
She rose, and picked up the receiver; Ada Dunham 
was calling her. 

“I just know you’re blessing me for ringing up, 
when you’re probably rushed to death, but I just 
rang up to ask if you found time to go and look at 
that warming-pan at Shorter’s. Mr. Thompson was 
asking if you’d let me know yet whether the warm¬ 
ing-pan appealed to you, you know you’re so artistic^ 
we’d hate to give you anything that wasn’t really 
out of the ordinary, so I said, Tt seems awful to ask 
her to go and look at a present and probably see the 





Marigold Puts on Her Wedding-Gown 75 

price, and that might make her worried for fear it 
was too much’—not that I mean that it is, Miss 
Trent, but anyway, Mr. Thompson and myself 
wanted to make sure of giving you something that 
would appeal -” 

‘'It’s lovely; of course I went to see it,” said poor 
Marigold. She wanted to scream into the telephone: 
“Don’t send me a present—there isn’t going to be a 
wedding!” 

“Of course, if you’d rather have something else. 
Miss Trent, why, Mr. Thompson and myself would 
be only too pleased if you would just say so, very 
very frankly, but personally, when I saw that 
warming-pan I said to Mr. Thompson, ‘Kenneth, 
that warming-pan just looks like Miss Trent,’ really, 

that was the way we both felt, it was quite odd-” 

Her voice went on and on, while Marigold made 
banal replies. “It’s perfectly lovely^^ she heard 
herself saying; “It’s so good of you and Mr. Thomp¬ 
son. Don and \ do appreciate it.” 

“—because we feel you’re always so safe with 
an antique, I don’t know what it is about them, 
exactly—but Mr. Thompson is quite an authority, 
you know, and really he says this is a very delight¬ 
ful specimen. Not that I want to blow my own 
horn. Miss Trent!” 

Polite laughter. “It’s perfectly lovely, Don and 
I— 

“So I knew you wouldn’t think it was queer if I 







76 A Pocketful of Poses 

just rang up and asked you very very frankly-” 

Don, sitting close to where Marigold stood with 
the telephone in her hand, lifted a fold of her dress, 
and buried his face in it. She looked down with 
wet eyes on his dark bowed head, so unsuspecting, 
so defenceless. She thought then that she could 
never tell him that she had stopped loving him. But 
that evening the courage of desperation came to her. 
Granny was in bed, and Marigold was alone. Don¬ 
ald had said good-bye to her that afternoon, until 
they should meet the next day at their wedding; but 
she knew at last that she must tell him the truth. 

She called the Hopper house on the telephone, 
and Mrs. Hopper answered: 

“Yes, dear. I’ll call him. The boys are going to 
the Club for dinner, you know, but they haven’t 
started yet. How are you, dear^? Getting pretty 
thrilled‘? How’s Grandmother’s cold? Oh, that’s 
too bad. Now, be sure to let us know if there’s any¬ 
thing at all we can do.” 

Marigold’s teeth were chattering with nervous¬ 
ness, and the blood roared in her ears. It seemed 
forever before Mrs. Hopper said: “Just a minute 
till I call Donald.” She could hear a gramophone 
playing; then Don’s voice calling some laughing 
reply before it said into the telephone, suddenly 
sounding very close: 

“Hello, Honey! Want me?” 



Marigold Puts on Her Wedding-Gown 77 


“Don—can you come over here? Now—right 
away? I must see you.” 

“Why, Fd love to, dear, but we’re just starting 
for the Club. You know Fm giving a dinner for 
the ushers. Can’t you tell me what it is over the 
phone?” 

“No, Don, I can’t—please come! Please!” 

“But listen, Hon’, you understand, don’t you—?” 

“Oh, Don, yes, I do, I do understand, but it is 
desperately important—” She was crying so that 
she could hardly articulate. She said: 

“Don, I implore you to come!” 

“Fll be right over,” he said briefly. When he 
came, she drew back from his arms, and, lifting to 
him her swollen, discoloured face and her eyes al¬ 
most blind with tears, said without preface: 

“Fve stopped loving you. I can’t marry you.” 

The relief that swept over his anxious face was 
almost ludicrous. “Oh, Marigold!” he said, “I 
thought something really was the matter! Come 
here to me, baby!” 

She stared at him in astonishment. “Don,” she 
whispered, “Didn’t you understand what I said? 
I don’t love you any more.” 

“Come and sit down here, dear. No, I won’t 
touch you if you don’t want me to, but just let me 
wipe your poor little wet face.” He wiped away 
the tears with his big cool handkerchief, gently, and 
put a cushion behind her. “Fm going to light the 



78 


A Pocketful of Poses 

fire,” he said. “You teeth are chattering, and your 
little hands are like lumps of ice. Now then, let’s 
hear all about it.” 

“But, Don—I don’t want you to be good to me. 
I’m not hysterical. I don’t love you—I can’t marry 
you, Don. You don’t want me to marry you if I 
don’t love you, do you, Don'? You don’t under¬ 
stand. I just want you to hate me—to hate me and 
go away.” 

He let her finish and then said: 

“Honey, don’t you know that every girl feels this 
way before she’s married? There isn’t one in a mil¬ 
lion who doesn’t—I swear to you that there isn’t. 
I swear it. Marigold. You’re tired and nervous, and 
your grandmother has been working on your feelings. 
It’s God’s truth that you’re only feeling what almost 
every woman in the world feels just before she’s 
married.” 

“No, Don, no! Please don’t make me marry you 
—Don—please—please-!” 

“Who’s the man?” he asked cynically, his voice 
and expression changing suddenly. 

“Nobody. I just don’t want to be married—ever 
—ever—to anybody-” 

“Then what have you been reading?” He knew 
Marigold better than she realized. 

“Nothing. But I don’t love you.” 

“Marigold, you don’t know what you’re talking 






Marigold Puts on Her Wedding-Gown 79 

about. You do love me. You couldn’t love me 
this afternoon and stop loving me this evening.” 

‘‘But I didn’t love you this afternoon—I haven^t 
loved you for months-” 

“You gave a pretty damned good imitation of it, 
then. What’s the idea of waiting until now to 
spring the news*?” 

“I tried to tell you, Don,—truly, truly I did— 
but-” 

“But what?’ 

“I couldn’t bear to hurt you,” she said feebly. 

He gave a bitter laugh. “Oh, thank you very 
much. Very kind of you. So, in order not to hurt 
me, you wait until the day before our wedding, and 
then say, ‘Oh, by the way. I’m not going to marry 
you—just thought I’d mention it.’ Well, I con¬ 
gratulate you, my dear. You’ve made a damned 
fool out of me, which I suppose was your idea.” 

“Don—Don-” 

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, if you’ve quite fin¬ 
ished being kind. I’ll go and tell my friends the 
news, and we’ll all laugh our heads off. The joke 
certainly is on me-” 

His bitter voice broke; he lit a cigarette with a 
hand that shook, took one puff, hurled it savagely 
into the fire, and, putting his head down on the 
mantel-piece, began to cry with great tearing sobs. 
Terrified, she touched his arm timidly. He turned 
and caught her to him fiercely, crushing her; his hot 








80 A Pocketful of Poses 

lips fastened to hers. Presently he picked her up in 
his arms, and carried her to the sofa. Kneeling be¬ 
side her, with his arms about her, he said in a broken 
voice: 

“Marigold, you must marry me. It doesn’t mat¬ 
ter if you don’t love me now, I swear before God 
that it doesn’t. When we are married I’ll teach 
you to love me—only believe me, my little one. I 
love you as no woman ever was loved before. I tell 
you the plain truth. Marigold, when I say that un¬ 
less I can have you I don’t want to live. That’s the 
way I love you. If you tell me, now, that you won’t 
marry me, that’s all right, darling. I’ll understand 
and say good luck and God bless you—but I won’t 
care enough about living, without you, to go on with 
it any more, that’s all.” 

Utterly spent, she let him bury his stricken face 
against her breast. Her one great effort to be true 
to herself and to him had come to nothing, and she 
could not pursue it further. After this she would 
just seem to be what he wanted her to be. 

He lifted his face. “You do believe me, dar¬ 
ling?” 

“Yes, Don.” 

“I’ll be so good to you, little Marigold.” 

“I know.” 

“Give me your lips—^my own-” 


Donald and Marigold’s wedding day. 




Marigold Puts on Her Wedding-Gown 81 

It was a grey day, bitter cold, with sleet slant¬ 
ing in white lines, and clicking against the windows. 
In the black garden the folded snowdrops shivered. 
Marigold opened her eyes. 

She had not expected to go to sleep all night, but 
already it was eight o’clock, and Mary was knock¬ 
ing, and asking if she would like her breakfast in 
bed. As she sat up drinking her tea and eating her 
toast, she looked around her room. She tried to 
have appropriate feelings about her little bed, the 
wigless doll, the view of pine boughs from her 
window; she said to herself: “The last time!” But' 
she had no real feeling about it. It seemed just like 
any ordinary morning, only breakfast in bed was 
rather a treat. She was surprised at, and a little 
ashamed of her appetite, and wished that Mary 
had put marmalade on the tray. However, she had 
not, and Marigold felt that it would not be at all 
the proper thing to ask for it. 

She got up, and put on the shabby old bath-robe 
that she would never wear again. She could see her 
new dressing-gown, frilled and pink as a sea-shell, 
lying in her half-packed bag. 

Granny was in bed, saving herself for the after¬ 
noon. She really had a bad cold, and looked old 
and frail. Downstairs, Miss Hopper was bustling 
about, and as Marigold came down the stairs, she 
burst into the Wedding March, beating time with 
the dust-pan and brush she held. 


82 


A Pocketful of Poses 

“Dum dum de dum^ Dum dum de dum! Good 
mornmg, little Bride! The top of the mornin’ to 
yez, darlint. And how is the girlie feeling this 
morning^ Pretty sad, I guess, or else not, as the 
boys say! Now, Lady Mine, come and see how 
weVe fixed the flowers, an it please your lady¬ 
ship.” 

There were daffodils everywhere, great starry 
clusters of them; a Milky Way of daffodils. 

People talked to Marigold in the tone of voice 
that seems to be reserved for brides and the dan¬ 
gerously ill. Her flowers from Don came, wax- 
white gardenias; and Marigold heard Mary whisper: 
“Sure, they smell like a funeral.” Lunch was an¬ 
nounced. 

“Goodness Gracious Agnes!” screamed Miss Hop¬ 
per. “I had no idea it was so late! No, dearie, I 
won’t stay to lunch, thank you muchly. The wed¬ 
ding’s only—let’s see, one to two is one, two, three, 
—three hours off, and though the little Bridie may 
not think it, even an old school-marm wants to do 
some prinking. No, honey-bunch, Pll absquatu¬ 
late ! But I’ll be there, waiting at the Church, wait¬ 
ing at the Church, waiting at the Church-!” 

She made her exit, singing loudly. 

Marigold lunched on tea and cooling Irish stew. 
She wished she might read a book as she ate, but 
she felt that she must try to appear like a proper 
bride before Mary, who kept stealing curious 




Marigold Puts on Her Wedding-Gown 83 

glances at her. As she was finishing her lunch, the 
telephone rang. It was Donald who wanted to 
speak to her. 

'‘Just wanted to hear your voice, dear, and ask 
how you’re feeling.” 

'Tm all right, Don.” 

"I couldn’t go to sleep last night, could you*?” 

She could not tell him that she had slept all the 
night through as sweetly and deeply as a good baby, 
so she answered: 

“No, I couldn’t either.” 

“Well—everything all right, darling*?” 

“Everything’s all right, Donny,” she said, but, 
to her own surprise, her voice caught in a sudden sob. 

“Marigold, it will be, I promise you it will be!” 

“Yes, I know.” 

“Then good-bye, my precious—for a little while.” 

“Good-bye.” 

“Marigold!” 

“Yes*?” 

“Good-bye- 

The caterer’s men came. 

She stood by her window looking out at the storm. 
It would be nearly dark by four o’clock, but there 
were plenty of candles in the Church. 

Granny sent in word that it was time she dressed. 

She felt like someone else as she looked at herself 
in the mirror, dressed in shining folds, her train 




84 


A Pocketful of Poses 

sweeping away from her shoulders, her bright hair 
held close by the misty lace of her wedding-veil. A 
bride. But when she moved away, and no longer 
saw the white reflection, she was Marigold again— 
Marigold, who could not make herself feel like a 
bride. 

Suddenly, panic seized her. 

It was her wedding. She was caught. In a few 
minutes she would be married to Don for ever and 
ever. She threw herself on her bed, burying her 
face in the pillow to stifle the mad storm of weeping 
that shook her body. She cried in a strangled voice: 
“God, don’t make me marry Don! Make something 
happen so I won’t have to be married, God! Please! 
Please! Don’t let me have to marry Don.” 

She lay, panting and broken, until the door 
opened. She thought it was Granny, come to say 
the motor was waiting; but it was Miss Hopper, 
dressed in her best, with her new toque like a pud¬ 
ding of pansies, and under it her face all mottled 
red and white, her nose red, her eyes red and swollen. 
Miss Hopper had been crying too. 

“Why, Marigold, has somebody told you al¬ 
ready?” she asked. 

“Told me what?” 

“About—about poor Donald?” 

“No—no! What about him? What about him, 
Miss Hopper? What about him?” 

“Hush, dear, hush! You must be very brave. 


Marigold Puts on Her Wedding-Gown 85 

my poor little girl. Something terrible has hap¬ 
pened, and you must try to be brave.” 

‘Tlease go on—please, please!” 

‘‘Yes, dear, yes. The roads were so slippery with 
the sleet and Donald was driving so fast, I suppose 
—they think the car must have skidded, by the 
place on the bridge over the tracks, where the rails 

are down—anyway, it went over. Donald-” 

Marigold said stupidly: “Don’s dead.” She 
thought Miss Hopper looked very silly, standing 
there opening and shutting her mouth like a fish, 
with no words coming out. Then, with the mouth 
still opening and shutting, the face spread out, 
grew enormous, came swimming through the dark¬ 
ness towards her. 




CHAPTER VII 


PANIC 

O VER and over again, Marigold asked herself 
how Donald had died. Had it really been 
an accident, and was she set free^ Or had he given 
her the gift of his life, and bound her to him for¬ 
ever? The question called to her by day and by 
night. Had he not really been sure that he could 
make her love him? He had said that without her 
he would not want to go on living. But then his 
voice in that last talk over the telephone had 
sounded so strong and happy. And the roads had 
been terribly dangerous, in the ice-storm of that 
day; there had been other accidents. Every one 
but Marigold was sure it was accidental. “Of 
course it was an accident,’’ she said to herself. 
“Don wasn’t the sort of person to kill himself. It 
was an accident.” 

But why had he gone off alone? 

He and Edgar Hopper were to have been driven 
over in the limousine; but while Edgar was still in 
the tub, Donald had called through the bath-room 
door: 


86 


Panic 87 

“Mind if I go on ahead, Ted? Til wait for you 
in the church/’ 

“You’ll be an hour early, you Jackass!” his 
friend had roared, through gurglings and splashings. 

“I know, but something might happen, and I don’t 
want to keep my lady-friend waiting.” 

“Go ahead, it’s your funeral, not mine, but you’re 
a nut.” 

The chauffeur said: “Mr. Boynton asks could he 
have the little car, and off he goes all dressed up with 
a flower in his button-hole, sort of excited, but not 
any more than any gentleman would be goin’ to get 
married, and I tell him to look out for skiddin’, see, 
it was stormin’ terrible, so he says all right, but I 
don’t hardly think he took in how bad the roads was, 
anyway that’s all I know, poor young gentleman.” 

“Terribly sad!” other people said. “Of course, 
he must have been drinking!’ 

Marigold had always cared most for him when 
he was away from her, when she had been able, un¬ 
hindered by reality, to idealize him into her heart’s 
desire. Now she missed him and wanted him, 
illogically longed for him to comfort her for the 
grief she felt in losing him. Sorrow and relief strove 
together in her heart. 

She thought of him as she sat by her grand¬ 
mother’s bed through the slow hours, for Mrs. Trent 
was desperately ill; her cold had turned into pneu¬ 
monia. She lay, small and wasted, in her big bed, 


88 A Pocketful of Poses 

talking to shadows, giving orders to servants dead 
for years, trying to sing snatches of forgotten songs. 
Her eyes blazed with fever; she did not see Mari¬ 
gold or Miss Hopper or the trained nurse; she saw 
the friends who came to welcome her, young ladies 
in crinoline and pork-pie hats, young gentlemen 
with side-whiskers and peg-top trousers. Cold rain 
clicked on the windows, but Granny and her friends 
were in a garden where roses bloomed and straw¬ 
berries were ripe. Across fifty years, two little 
shades trotted back, and Granny’s spirit heard them 
scratching at her door. “Carlo! Floss!” she called. 
“Good doggies, then!” She tried to lift her tired 
hand to pat them. 

Marigold could not leave her to go back with Mrs. 
Boynton to Donald’s funeral; she sat in the sick¬ 
room, her tired brain turning in its circle. “Don— 
Don! How did you die*? Why did I tell you I 
didn’t love you^ I’ve killed you. Granny—oh, 
poor Granny! Don-” 

Mrs. Trent died towards dawn on the tenth day 
after Donald’s death. 

Life to Marigold became like a bright, shifting 
kaleidoscope; a thing of small separate happenings, 
clear and hard. Granny in her coffin, looking as if 
she were made of yellow wax; Granny’s little feet 
in black satin slippers; a smell of baking bread; a 
voice saying, “Poor child”; Coco scratching at Gran¬ 
ny’s door; violets tied with broad purple ribbon; 




Panic 


89 


Heathcliff and Trillium shouting their songs and 
scattering their seed, just as if nothing had hap¬ 
pened; violets and palms; voices saying, “Poor 
child”; opening a closet door and suddenly coming 
upon her wedding-dress; the Bishop coming, and 
having to have some lunch. 

Presently the Church where she and Don were to 
have been married, and the choir singing “Peace, 
Perfect Peace.” Then the drive to the grave, and 
standing in the cold drizzle, while the Bishop read: 

“Man, that is born of a woman, hath but a short 
time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, 
and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a 
shadow, and never continueth in one stay.” 

The words were read for Granny; but they really 
belonged to Don—more to Don than to any one 
else who had ever died. 

“Thou knowest. Lord, the secrets of our 
hearts-” 

Don! Don! 

Then home again to a house swept and shining 
and empty. Coming in, feeling hungry and sleepy, 
and ashamed of feeling either. 

And then what"? 

Mrs. Trent’s lawyer came to talk to Marigold. 
She tried to listen intelligently, but she had never 
understood figures, and she felt as if she were in a 
coma. She heard words, but they meant nothing to 




90 A Pocketful of Poses 

her. She was so tired that her one thought was to 
have Mr. Park finish talking and go: she sat 
very straight, forcing a look of bright intentness to 
her face, pretending to understand. By the time 
he went, she did understand one thing—that she 
would have almost no money. G.ranny’s annuity 
ceased at her death, and she had saved practically 
nothing. The house must be sold, and what would 
Marigold do then? 

As Mr. Park droned on, silly words sang in her 
head: “And what will poor Robin do then? Poor 
thing!” She had no near relations; she could not 
settle down on distant cousins that she had only 
seen once or twice in her life. 

Miss Hopper had paid her twenty-five dollars a 
month for teaching in the little school. That was 
wealth when she had used it for books or marron 
glaces or a new blouse; but, vague as she was about 
money matters, even Marigold realized that it would 
be nothing when she had to pay for lodging and 
food and clothes. Hoping against hope that she 
might be given extra work to do at the school, and 
earn more, she approached Miss Hopper, who said: 

“Pm dreffle, drefile sorry, childie, but, you see, a 
long time ago, when you said you weren't coming 
back, I engaged another girlie who’s had special 
training, and I’m afraid there isn’t any place at 
school for you.” 

She thought of trying to get a position as a com- 



Panic 


91 


panion or as a governess, but she did not know how 
to go about it. She had had no training that would 
fit her to earn more than starvation wages. She 
was possessed by inhibitions; confused and helpless, 
and terribly alone. 

Mrs. Boynton had felt toward Marigold all the 
jealousy that is natural for the mother of an only 
son to feel towards the woman he loves. She had 
made up her mind, from the day Don had told her 
of his engagement, that Marigold was unworthy of 
him, and that she did not appreciate him and the 
honour he was doing her in choosing her to be his 
wife. ‘‘The letters she writes me seem cold, 
Donny,” she complained. “They don’t seem to 
show any real feeling. And when I think what I’ve 
been through with you, what I’ve suffered for your 
sake, it just seems as if I couldn^t give you up to a 
little thing who acts just about as cool as a cucum¬ 
ber. Well—I don’t know that I have any reason to 
expect her to show any feeling—after all, no one 
feels like a mother-” 

“And thank the Lord Marigold isn’t that! Not 
yet,” said Don. 

“Oh, Son, you know I hate fault-finding, and 
criticizing, but that’s another thing-” 

“What^ That Marigold isn’t a mother^ Give 
the poor child time.” 

“Donald! I don’t like to hear you talking that 





92 


A Pocketful of Poses 

flippant way about a sacred subject. No, Son, I 
mean, of course I don’t know Marigold yet— {Mari¬ 
gold! What a name! What possessed them?)— 
but you can tell a lot by letters and photographs, 
and she seems so young and sort of—well—well, 
anyway, I mean is she just the mother you want 
for your kiddies?” 

“You bet she is.” 

“Well—you needn’t look so cross, Donald, it was 
just she seems so young-” 

She said to her friends: “Anyone of forty girls 
right here in town I’d have gladly welcomed as a 
daughter, but no, Donald has to go off and find a 
perfect stranger no one’s ever set eyes on! I don’t 
know what possessed him!” 

But when she met Marigold she was relieved: she 
was a sweet little thing, after all: not the cold schem¬ 
ing creature Mrs. Boynton had feared. She was 
jealous of her youth and beauty, but she felt affec¬ 
tion for her, too. Here, she thought, was a child 
who would be glad of advice and direction, who 
would look to her for help. Already in her imagina¬ 
tion she was choosing the wall papers for the new 
home with Marigold, teaching her to cook Donald’s 
favorite dishes, even holding Donald’s firstborn— 
and incidentally Marigold’s—in her arms. Mari¬ 
gold’s gentle deference made her feel once more 
that she was of the first importance in Donald’s life, 
and, feeling so, her heart was warm with affection. 




Panic 93 

“She’s a dear little biddable soul,” she thought 
fondly. 

Later, when she made some suggestions for the 
approaching wedding, it was a surprise to find the 
dear little biddable soul had quite definite ideas of 
her own. Mrs. Boynton had said, as she sipped her 
hot water and lemon: “I went to the sweetest wed¬ 
ding last week, with such a pretty feature, I thought 
right away, wouldn’t that be nice for the wedding! 
Right before the service, but when the bride and 
groom had come in—it was Helen Foss and Nelson 
Skinner, you know, Donny—Mrs. McKim—she’s a 
woman at home with a very fine voice. Marigold— 
she sang the sweetest song, every one spoke of it, they 
said in the account of the wedding in the Press that 
it was called 'A Birthday’; that sounds sort of funny 
for a wedding-day, but still it came out all right by 
saying it was her birthday on account of her love 
coming to her, although it starts in rather queerly 
about her heart being like a water-spout-” 

■“ ‘A watered shoot^ ” said Marigold softly: 

“ ‘My heart is like a singing bird 

Whose nest is in a watered shoot; 

My heart is like an apple tree 

Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit.’ ” 

“Why, you know it! Isn’t that a coincidence! 
How did the very end go, about the birthday? You 
remember, I was trying to tell you. Son?” 



94 A Pocketful of Poses 

“'‘Because the birthday of my life 

Is come, my love is come to me.’ ” 

She could not bear the look in Don’s eyes; she added 
hastily: “It’s Christina Rossetti’s, you know.” 

'‘Is it? Are you sure? I had an idea it was 
Carrie Jacobs Bond. It has a sort of a swing like 
‘The End of a Perfect Day.’ Well, no matter. But 
I was thinking, that’s just the thing for Donald and 
Marigold to^have sung at their wedding.” 

But the dear little biddable soul had said no, 
politely and regretfully, but definitely. It had been 
rather surprising. And other suggestions had met 
with the same result—a suggestion as to carrying 
the ring in the heart of a white rose—a suggestion 
as to a delicious drink for the wedding reception, 
made of grapejuice and cucumbers. 

However, that probably was due to old Mrs. 
Trent. Donald had never approved of her influence 
over her granddaughter. 

When Marigold was left alone, Mrs. Boynton 
was filled with pity for her. Her own house was 
sad and empty, and she thought that it would be 
a comfort to have some one with her. She could 
easily afford it; her husband had left her well pro¬ 
vided for. Marigold was quiet and gentle; she 
would be very little trouble, and she would always 
be there to talk about Donald, or go shopping, or 
play a game of Double Dummy Four Hundred. 
She herself was hardly aware of her real reason 




Panic 


95 


for wanting Marigold to live with her. Subcon¬ 
sciously, she was set, hard as flint, against any other 
man possessing what Donald had wanted. Every 
primitive instinct in her was bent on keeping for 
her young what had been his, even though now he 
was dead; and it would be far easier to do this with 
Marigold under her eyes. 

'‘I want you to come and fill Son’s empty place, 
dear,” she wrote to Marigold. “Somewhere our boy 
is loving us both still, I know, and it would be his 
wish that this should be Home to his little girl. 
I’m very lonely without my boy, and you would be 
helping me as much as I would be helping you. 
We’ll cling together and comfort each other.” 

It was hard for Marigold to know what to do; 
she had always depended on the decisions of other 
people, first her father’s, then her grandmother’s. 
She asked Miss Hopper’s advice, Mr. Park’s, other 
friends of Mrs. Trent’s. They were anxious to 
have her definitely settled, and off their minds. It 
made them uncomfortable to think of her, lonely 
and bewildered; so they strongly urged her to go 
to Mrs. Boynton. 

Panic seized her. Mrs. Boynton’s kindness 
seemed the only stable thing in a changing world. 

She tried to look at the situation honestly, tried 
to turn an uncompromising light on her mental 
muddle. She was frightened and helpless. She 
was not a wild creature, loving freedom and ad- 


96 A Pocketful of Poses 

venture; she needed friendly walls about her, her 
hearth rug, her basket, her saucer of milk. Mrs. 
Boynton was kind and motherly, and said she needed 
her. If Marigold had found a place as a companion, 
she would have been paid for doing all the things 
that she would do so much more eagerly for Mrs. 
Boynton. She would try hard to give more than 
she took; and at the same time she would do it so 
that Mrs. Boynton should always have the satisfac¬ 
tion of feeling herself the only benefactor. 

She thought of the disadvantages of life with 
Mrs. Boynton, who was talkative, inquisitive, em¬ 
barrassingly sentimental, and—Marigold was find¬ 
ing it hard to be highminded and truthful together 
—not quite of the Trents’ social class. That 
thought, as always, aroused her loyalty to Don and 
to everyone who belonged to him; and not only did 
it arouse her loyalty and her protective instinct, but 
it did away with any feeling of fear of new circum¬ 
stances, or lack of confidence in herself. After all— 
as Granny had so often reminded her—she was a 
Trent. And being a Trent meant that she had hid¬ 
den treasure—love of beauty, of books, of nature; 
humour, and perception—that made all of her but 
her body independent forever. The uncompromis¬ 
ing light wavered and grew dim as she viewed this 
pleasant picture with a slight complacence. 

Then the light grew strong again, showing truly 
and clearly the one reason that made her sure that 




Panic 


97 


she would go to Mrs. Boynton. Through dwelling 
on the question of Donald’s death, she had grown 
to believe almost surely that he had killed himself. 
If he had done so, because she had told him she did 
not love him, she could see nothing else to do but 
to give up all the rest of her days to making his 
mother happy. It was one of the most sincere ef¬ 
forts of her life to do what was right. 

If Don had died naturally, she could have chosen 
for herself. She had no idea what she could have 
done, but untrained people did earn their living; 
she could have coloured post-cards, perhaps, or as¬ 
sisted in an atmospheric tea-room somewhere. But 
then she would have been a free woman, with 
nothing on her conscience. She said to herself: “If 
Fd been truthful with Don in the first place, this 
never would have happened. I pose and pretend, 
and I know it, and Fm too much of a moral coward 
to stop it, and Fve killed him. Wherever I am, and 
whatever I do, I suppose I’ll keep on pretending, so 
I might as well do it with Mrs. Boynton, and pre¬ 
tend to her that she’s making me perfectly happy.” 

But she was not used to that bright unwavering 
light; she could not and would not keep it turned 
upon herself. Its beam grew less; and once more 
she saw herself as she wished to see herself, not with 
every flaw pitilessly illumined. Sorrow and youth 
incarnate. She would never again be happy, she 


98 A Pocketful of Poses 

thought, while tears of self-pity streamed down her 
cheeks; but peace might come with expiation. 

In June she went to live with Donald’s mother. 

It was a hot day, with thunder in the air, when 
Mrs. Boynton led her up a path between two 
hydrangea bushes, covered with flowers like boiled 
dumplings, to a complacent dwelling painted yellow, 
with a small tower, a front porch five steps up from 
the ground, and lace curtains looped back in the 
windows to reveal pots of flourishing asphidistra. 
One window, on the second floor, oval in shape, was 
of stained glass in a pattern of conventionalized 
water lilies, clearly denoting to an intelligent ob¬ 
server that behind its firm modesty lay the bath¬ 
room. 

When the screen-door had slammed behind them, 
Mrs. Boynton threw her arms about Marigold: 

“Welcome home, little daughter!” she cried 
emotionally. “It’s a sad home-coming for you, I 
know, but we must both be sure that Donald is with 
us every second. And now I want to show you your 
new home.” 

She led Marigold from room to room. She prided 
herself on keeping up with the times, and her 
scheme of decoration had faithfully followed each 
new fashion, from the time when Donald was a 
little boy; when bunches of dried pampas grass had 
filled the mantel-piece vases, and oil paintings, in 


Panic 


99 


gilt frames so deep that looking at a picture had 
been like looking at a tiny landscape at the other 
end of a tunnel, had hung on the walls. They were 
hidden away now, and so were the black walnut 
chairs with their tufted velvet seats, the what-not 
carved with leaves and flowers, the stereoscope and 
its views of Watkin’s Glen and the Franconia hills. 
The parlour had been redecorated in mahogany and 
old rose; sepia prints of Sir Galahad and Whistler’s 
Mother hung on the walls; a tea-table, always set 
but seldom used, stood before the gas-log fire-place, 
together with a mahogany muffin-stand. The old 
things had been ugly, but they had had character: 
now the house was complacent, and empty of 
reality. 

“And here’s the dining-room—the blue curtains 
are pretty with the tapestry paper, aren’t they, 
dear? Then the den—we don’t use that much now 
—Mr. Boynton and Donald-” 

She paused, pressing her handkerchief to her 
mouth; her face worked, her nose grew pink, her 
eyes swam with tears. Presently she swallowed, 
smiled brightly, and went on: 

“Now come upstairs, to my lady’s chamber! 
Here’s your room—I’ve had it papered specially for 
you, dear, the paper’s just a little message from 
Donald-Boy—‘Forget-Me-Not’. Here I am just 
opposite you. Here’s Donald’s room.” She wept 
again. 



100 


A Pocketful of Poses 

“Fve kept it exactly as it was the last time he 
went out of it. Fve never changed a thing. See, 
there’s the magazine he was reading, open on the 
arm of his chair, and his pipe lying on the ash-tray, 
ril tell you what I do, dear, every evening just at 
twilight, when Donny used to be coming home, I 
come and sit here for a little while and think about 
my boy—about our boy—and I feel him so near— 
he’s with me in the gloaming. We’ll sit here to¬ 
gether often. Marigold, and talk of Donald, just 
very simply and tenderly, won’t we*?” 

Marigold, rigid with embarrassment, made a 
faint sound of assent; and Mrs. Boynton went on 
with determined brightness: 

“Well, now you’ve seen it, what do you think of 
your new home", lady-bird*?” 

“It’s perfectly lovely!” said Marigold; she was 
afraid that Mrs. Boynton must see how dismayed 
she was; her voice rang with forced enthusiasm. 
“Such big bright rooms! And you were a darling 
to have that pretty wall-paper put on for me!” 

Try not to think of home—of flower-filled rooms 
—of deep chairs covered with old sea-shell patterned" 
chintz, cool to a hot cheek—of the Biblical tiles that 
a little girl had loved, yellow and blue and cream- 
coloured around the nursery fireplace—of the lawn 
where at this time of the afternoon, the shadows 
were long on the green-gold grass. Better not to 
think of those things now. 



Panic 


101 


Mrs. Boynton smiled deprecatingly. “It’s simple, 
but it is homey and cozy. ‘Be it ever so humble’, 
you know! Well—I hope you’ll be happy here, 
dear.” 

“Oh, I know I shall!” 

“And there’s just one thing that I’m going to say 
now, and then we’ll never speak of it again. I 
know that of course you must often think: ‘If Don¬ 
ald had never met me, he’d be alive and well today/ 
Well, you mustn’t dwell on that. You mustn’t 
ever blame yourself for what happened, or think 
that that’s the way I feel about it.” 

Marigold thought: “Don, I did kill you. Do you 
know how unhappy I am? Have you forgiven me, 
Don?” 





Paet II: MRS. BOYNTON’S HOUSE 


■ r 1 ■ 

'■ f: 

■ \ - 


Part I \:Mrs. Boynton’sHouse 


CHAPTER VIII 

POSING FOR MRS. BOYNION 

W HEN Marigold came to live with Mrs. Boyn¬ 
ton, she had, as usual, seen herself as the 
heroine of the drama. Slender, black-clad, pathetic, 
with her life of love and youth and happiness over 
before it had begun, she saw herself gallantly hiding 
her broken heart. If Donald had died for her, she 
would give him back a royal gift, a measure of sac¬ 
rifice and service pressed down and running over; 
she would fill his mother’s empty life, empty through 
her, no matter how Don had died; would flood it 
with golden light. 

But Marigold was not the only one who saw her¬ 
self as the central figure of their tragedy. Mrs. 
Boynton, as the bereaved mother, felt herself at the 
core of the sorrow of the whole world. She had 
made her room a shrine to Motherhood: framed 
poems on the walls celebrated Mothers, and books 
and pictures glorified them. There she sat, and she 
believed she was thinking of her dead son; but more 

often, while tears trickled down her cheeks and her 

105 


106 A Pocketful of Poses 

hands writhed in her lap, she was thinking of her¬ 
self. She thought of Don’s life and hers as a sym¬ 
phony of adoration and understanding. As a matter 
of fact, they had gotten on amicably only because 
she let him have his own way in everything. Her 
emotional demands had exasperated him often 
enough, and he had learned to walk a tortuous course 
that avoided on the one side her tearful upbraidings 
and on the other the more violent demonstrations of 
her adoration; but, since his death, every detail in 
their relationship that was not as bright and beauti¬ 
ful as she wanted it to be had faded from the picture. 

Donald had told Marigold that he had never 
found one creed broad enough to hold his religion, 
and that his Church was God’s Great Out-of-Doors; 
his mother, less difficult to please, was a member of 
the Presbyterian Church; but on this stern rock 
blossomed flowers of less austere faiths—a little 
modified Christian Science, but not enough to spoil 
her enjoyment of her aches and pains; and bits of 
vague, pleasant doctrines that promised health, 
wealth, and happiness to their followers. She en¬ 
joyed closing her eyes, relaxing comfortably in a 
cushioned chair, and saying to herself: ‘‘Peace. 
Love. Beauty. Strength.” A little book she some¬ 
times read said that if she did this often enough, 
Peace, Love, Beauty, and Strength would gently 
unfold in her heart, like white petals unfolding to 
reveal the golden heart of a rose. This passage she 



Posing for Mrs. Boynton 107 

thought so pretty that she scored it heavily, and 
wrote on the margin: “Beautiful—and true!” 

She liked the emphasis to be laid on such com¬ 
fortable things, rather than on gloomy matters^— 
death, for instance. But, although she was afraid of 
dying, she firmly believed in Heaven—a Heaven 
that she had never visualized beyond a blaze of 
light presided over by God the Father, looking like 
a serious Santa Claus, but with billowing white robes 
instead of fur-trimmed scarlet tunic; God the Son, 
in white robes, too, but robes that fell about him in 
gentle dejected folds; and God the Holy Ghost, a 
dove—just a dove. But now the one distinct im¬ 
portant feature of Heaven to Mrs. Boynton was 
that Donald was there. 

“I expect Donald and the dear Grandma are to¬ 
gether all the time,” she said to Marigold. She 
seemed to feel that Mrs. Trent had been very for¬ 
tunate to have such a companion, on the longest 
journey. 

With a little hidden spurt of laughter. Marigold 
imagined Mrs. Trent’s indignation, in case she had 
had to share the same cloud with Donald while 
they waited for Saint Peter to unlock the Golden 
Gate. 

One night after dinner Mrs. Boynton brought out 
her ouija board and asked Marigold to work it with 
her. 

“I could never get it to make sense, all by myself. 



108 


A Pocketful of Poses 

but Son might speak to us, now that you're here," 
she said, her voice shaken with eagerness. “Oh, 
Marigold, if he only would! If he only would!" 

Marigold felt reluctant, and yet—it would be so 
easy to pretend; it would hurt no one, and make 
Mrs. Boynton happy. The pointer, shifting aim¬ 
lessly beneath their finger-tips, began to waver from 
letter to letter. How easy to make it spell a word— 
just think of a letter, and almost of itself the pointer 
went to it—a butterfly light touch of direction; 
“M", and then “O”; it spelled out “Mother". Mrs. 
Boynton’s eyes shone like stars in her white face. 
“Marigold!" she breathed, “Fm not pushing, are 
you? Oh-!" 

“Mother—hello—it’s Don talking to you-" 

The pointer moved lightly and quickly. 

“You look so pretty to-night—but keep jolly— 

I’m not far off- 

‘‘DonnyJ” 

“Mother" 

“Donny! Son! Say something to prove it’s 
you!’’ 

“Remember my rabbit named Elsie—remember 
when I had measles you read The Boy Travellers in 
Africa to me—the cookies you kept in the stone 

crock—your white rose bush my goat ate-" 

Don had, told Marigold a thousand things about 
his boyhood. She hardly knew herself what she 
would spell out with the flying pointer. 









Posing for Mrs, Boynton 109 

''Darling Mother—sometime soon it will be all 
as it used to be-” 

"Oh, it goes so fast! I can’t keep track! I can’t 
keep track! Oh, DonaldT 

"It just spelled 'Mother—Mother’.” 

"Oh, I’m so happy I shall die! To have my boy 
again! Nobody else knew those funny little things 
—even I hadn’t thought of them for ages. Oh, 
Donny! My own baby! When his goat ate my 
rose bush he wanted to buy me another with the 
pennies out of his little bank. Oh, Marigold, you 
can’t help believing that was Donald, can you?” 

In the mother’s heart was hidden a warm thought 
that she was ashamed of. "He didn’t even speak 
to Marigold—it was all for me!” 

Every evening after that they worked the ouija 
board. Sometimes the messages came at once; some¬ 
times the pointer swooped and circled meaninglessly 
for a time; but at last it always spelled out 
"Mother”, and the messages would follow, some¬ 
times wistful, sometimes gay, but always all for her. 

One night, when Mrs. Boynton had been asking 
questions—"Have you seen Papa, dear?” "What do 
you do all the time?” "Do you see us every minute?” 
—she said to Marigold: "I’ve got to ask Donald 
about—about his accident. It just haunts me—I’ve 
got to ask him exactly how it happened.” She lifted 
her strained face, her eyes squeezed shut. "Donald! 




110 A Pocketful of Poses 

Will you tell Mother what happened when you— 
passed over?’’ 

Marigold felt faint and sick. Under her trem¬ 
bling finger-tips the pointer lurched and stopped. 
Her blood thundered in her ears, and through the 
thundering she heard Mrs. Boynton’s voice repeat¬ 
ing her question. She burst into tears, and the 
pointer went spinning to the floor. 

"‘Oh, Marigold! Couldn’t you have held in just 
a minute longer? I’m sorry it made you feel bad, 
but it’s just as hard for me —and he was going to 
tell us about it. I felt it move—can’t you stop cry¬ 
ing and try again?” 

But Marigold could not stop crying. She hid 
her wet face in her shaking hands and the tears 
trickled through her fingers like the waters from 
some bitter spring. 

She could not sleep that night, and presently she 
got up and put on the frilled pink dressing-gown 
from her trousseau, and went softly down the hall 
to Donald’s room. As she opened the door she felt 
a sudden stab of terror as something white came to¬ 
wards her, but it was only the curtain blowing in at 
the open window. Moonlight flooded the room. 
She moved about softly, touching the things that 
had been his; on his desk lay one of the books she 
had sent him; she thought perhaps he had been try¬ 
ing to read it, for her sake, and with tears stinging 



Ill 


Posing for Mrs, Boynton 

into her eyes, she opened it. A sheet of paper fell 
from it, and, picking it up, she saw it was the be¬ 
ginning of a letter to herself: 

“Little Marigold- 

I love you so to-night, my darling. I wonder if 
you are thinking of me—I wonder if you miss me— 
do you, sweetheartI love you—I love you-’’ 

She slipped to the floor by his big chair, and 
buried her face in her arms. “Oh, Donny,” she 
sobbed, “wherever you are, you know all about 
everything now. You know how sorry I am— 
please, please forgive me. Lm trying so hard to 
make up for it, Don. Don^ somewhere,, you used to 
love me, so please forgive me for not having loved 
you—please forgive me! Oh, Don—Don-” 

The tears poured over her face, and stained the 
rosy bridal glories of her dressing-gown; she was 
tense and trembling. If for just one moment he 
could be sitting there, in his old place, to wipe the 
tears from her swollen face as he had done once be¬ 
fore, to tell her that he understood, and that it was 
all right. 

She screamed with terror, as she heard something 
moving softly behind her. But it was only Mrs. 
Boynton. 

“Whatever are you doing at this hour of the 
nightshe said. “For mercy’s sake, get back to 








112 A Pocketful of Poses 

bed. I don't know what's gotten into you, Marigold. 
You can't possibly know what it is to miss Donald 
as I miss him, every second of the day and night, but 
I don't go round at dead of night screaming and 
crying." 

The two women had nothing in common except 
the memory of the dead man; thrown together in an 
unnatural intimacy day after monotonous day, it 
was little wonder that at times they wore on each 
other almost unbearably. If Marigold did not seem 
to be missing Don enough, Mrs. Boynton would 
melt into tears because her boy was so soon for¬ 
gotten; if she showed signs of grieving, his mother 
would harden with resentful jealousy. She thought 
Marigold was affected; she would sometimes say, 
with real irritation behind the playfulness of her 
voice: “Mercy, Marigold, you use such a broad A 
you sound as if you had hot potato in your mouth! 
Makes me think of something Donald used to say 
about a Cahlf who went down a pahth in a minute 
and a hahlf to take a bahth." She thought Mari¬ 
gold was extravagant: “I just happened to find this 
sales-slip in the waste-paper basket, and I looked at 
it because I thought it was something of mine. Tzvo 
dollars for violet sachet! Well—none but the 
wealthy are happy!" 

Marigold, too, had her moments of frantic irri¬ 
tation. There was no such thing as privacy for any- 


113 


Posing for Mrs, Boynton 

one who lived with Mrs. Boynton, no secret of body 
or soul safe from the probing of what she honestly 
believed was not curiosity, but affectionate interest. 
She hated solitude; the doors of the bed-rooms had 
warped and would not lock, and Marigold had 
grown to wait with a sick dread for the slow widen¬ 
ing of the crack, and the voice that said: “Now, if 

Fm in the way-!” Even in the tub she was not 

secure. That door did lock, but she seldom began 
to run the water without Mrs. Boynton’s voice 
sounding on the other side: 

“Marigold! Marigold! You aren’t taking an¬ 
other bath, are you^? Mercy, you’ll wash yourself 
away! No, go on now you’ve started, but just be a 
little careful of the hot water—I say be careful of 
the hot water, there isn’t much.” 

She told herself that Mrs. Boynton was kind: that 
except for her she would be homeless: that she had 
become over-sensitive and morbid because they were 
too much together. There were times when Mari¬ 
gold could have rushed screaming from the house. 
Yet just as she would feel that the situation was 
hopeless, some real little flame of gentleness and 
kindness would spring up between the two women, 
throwing for a moment a pure and lovely light on 
their life together. A new note would sound in 
their voices, they would look at one another kindly, 
with unguarded eyes. For in spite of their self- 
centeredness, they had each received the accolade 



114 A Pocketful of Poses 

of pain, which must always give something of 
nobility. 

Marigold thought that life would not be so diffi¬ 
cult if she had friends—a friend. But she had 
made none. The girls who had known Donald 
called on her, looking her over curiously. She 
thought of the talk in the dressing-room at the 
dance, on the night Don had called her out into 
the scented moonlight; of the girl who had told 
Pinky about Don’s kisses. How well had they 
known him, she wonderedShe was reserved, icily 
gentle and polite with them, drawing into herself. 
With the women of Mrs. Boynton’s age she got 
'on better; they said she was a sweet little thing, and 
mistook her reserve for shyness. If they had known 
the condescension she felt towards them, they would 
have been outraged. But so far she had met no 
one who really interested her. When Mrs. Boynton 
told her that Judge and Mrs. Prout wanted to give 
a dinner in her honour—a big dinner, ten people— 
she thought: “Out of ten people there might be 
someone” “But we are in mourning,” she added 
aloud. 

Mrs. Boynton had been crying most of the night 
before, and her little face was a mottled lilac, but 
she answered bravely: “Not mourning, dear, rejoic- 
ing that it is well with our boy. We must always 
be careful to hold the Life-Thought and the Love- 



115 


Posing for Mrs, Boynton 

Thought about him. And about Grandma, too, 
of course,” she added politely. 

So now they were entering the Prout drawing¬ 
room. 

Mrs. Prout, fat, calm^ with big cow-like eyes, 
her bulging body squeezed into a baby-blue satin 
dress, led Marigold around the solemn circle. There 
was Dorothy Douty, a young married woman with 
bright cheeks and hard eyes; through a hundred 
little hints Marigold had learned that she and 
Donald had once been considered engaged. There 
was Mrs. Barton, a self-satisfied bride with care¬ 
fully careless blonde curls who (Marigold un¬ 
charitably told herself) thought that she resembled 
a wind-blown daffodil. As Marigold rather went 
in for looking like a daffodil herself, she found the 
bride annoying. There were husbands to go with 
these ladies: there was Judge Prout: there were two 
unattached men, rather dim. Although the affair 
had been spoken of by Mrs. Prout as “thoroughly 
informal, really just dropping into supper,” the 
ladies wore ball-gowns, with chiffon scarfs draped 
modestly about their bare shoulders; the gentlemen 
presented a dazzling appearance in swallow-tail 
coats and white ties. Marigold felt simple, pathetic, 
and well-bred in her black gown, and she liked the 
look of her arm, very white and slender, as Judge 
Prout facetiously drew it through his, and led the 
way into dinner with a sort of modified cake-walk. 


116 A Pocketful of Poses 

All the dining-room lamps were blazing in their 
ground glass globes, dimming the light of the candles 
of dark blue wax. In the center of the table was 
a shallow pottery bowl, holding a glass block in 
which were stuck carnations and sprays of aspara¬ 
gus fern, while around the bowl’s edge perched 
china birds, their perching made secure by rather 
too visible lumps of wax. It was evidently going 
to be something rather grand in the way of a din¬ 
ner, for, beside the ‘'Colonial Lady” dinner cards, 
large warmish oysters swooned at every place. 

Marigold, who had begun talking to her host in 
a lively fashion, suddenly realized that the others 
were silent, their eyes fixed on her reprovingly. 
She faltered, and stopped talking. Her hostess said: 
“Now, Judge Prout, if you will ask the blessing.” 

It was indeed a very grand dinner. After the 
oysters came soup with whipped cream; then a leg 
of lamb, two kinds of potatoes, and string beans 
fully justifying their name; party extras of jelly 
and celery, of salted peanuts, olives, and pickles; 
a salad rising like a Vesuvius—first a round of 
tinned pineapple, then sliced bananas and chopped 
walnuts, then a marshmallow, then a maraschino 
cherry—with a lava of mayonnaise flowing down its 
sides; ice-cream with more whipped cream and 
chopped nuts and cherries; lady-fingers; assorted 
chocolates in paper collars. To drink, there was 
iced water in heavy cut-glass tumblers. 



117 


Posing for Mrs. Boynton 

“Well, well, it's pleasant to have all you good 
people with us to-night!" Judge Prout said buoy¬ 
antly. “You'll have to watch out between those 
two fair ladies. Barton, that you don't forget you're 
a married man now!" 

“Oh, I have my eye on him," said his bride 
coquettishly. Her husband announced that already 
he knew what it was to dread domestic discipline. 
There was polite laughter, through which Mrs. 
Prout was heard to murmur: “Pass the jelly now, 
Martha." Conversation became general. 

“Well, how do you like our town. Miss Trent*?" 

“But Tagore's works carry such a message -" 

(This was the bride.) 

“Our own currants. I put up forty-" 

“—^not the comedies, no. What is there funny 
about seeing Charlie Chaplin throw a custard pie*? 
And the serious ones are so far-fetched; but I love 
the Current Events and the Travel Pictures-" 

“Pass the potatoes to the Judge, Martha—no, 
not the Irish, the candied sweets." 

“—said, T guess I'll say my prayers to Santa 
after this.' We thought it was pretty cute, she's 
only-" 

“—my receipt calls for pound for‘pound, but I 
always-" 

“—they ought to shoot 'em down like dogs; that’s 
the only sort of argument those Sinn Feiners under¬ 
stand." 








118 


A Pocketful of Poses 

“—McCormack—” “—pickled peaches—— as 
Stevenson says—” “—Douglas Fairbanks—“ “— 
Democratic-” 

A sudden silence fell: plates were changed; and 
in the hush some sort of mild panic was heard going 
on in the pantry. Marigold began to talk to her 
right hand neighbour, but he said reprovingly, ‘‘I 
think the Judge is going to tell us one of his stories.” 

A pyramid of fruit was passed, and was looked 
at dejectedly by every one except one of the dim 
young men, who recklessly attempted to take two 
or three grapes, and sent the whole erection top¬ 
pling. Oranges rolled across the table and went 
thudding to the floor; Mrs. Prout said patiently it 
was of no consequence. The ladies, archly begging 
the gentlemen not to be too long in rejoining them, 
went into the drawing-room. 

“Would any of you ladies like a cigarette?” Mrs. 
Prout asked. 

Hearty laughter from her guests indicated that 
this was a jeu d'esprit^ and Judge ProuPs fine saying 
about ladies and tobacco was quoted: “Someone 
asked the Judge what he thought about ladies smok¬ 
ing, and he answered quick as a flash, TPs a thing 
that can never happen—if she smokes, then she isn’t 
a lady.’ ” 

“Have you had typhoid?” Mrs. Prout asked 
Marigold, gazing at her with big expressionless eyes. 

“No.” 



Posing for Mrs, Boynton 119 

“Oh—I thought maybe that was why your hair 
was cut.” 

She seemed to hear Don’s voice: “Of course Fm 
crazy over every little thing about you, Sweetheart, 
but Fm afraid the folks back home may not quite 
get that bobbed hair of yours. They don’t have 
much use for short-haired women and long-haired 
men, and I don’t know but what they’ve got some¬ 
thing on their side, at that.” 

The ladies, with the exception of Marigold and 
the Wind-Blown Daffodil, had brought their work. 
“Have you finished that exquisite slumber-robe, 
Mrs. Prout? I was just telling Marigold about it. 
The most exquisite shades of old rose and grey. 
Marigold, I do think that’s such an artistic com¬ 
bination.” 

“Yes, now Fm doing this sweater for Thyrza, 
Will’s daughter, you know. She goes to Smith 
in the fall. Pardon? Yes, it does seem so, being 
the only daughter, but her father just idolizes her, 
so if Miss Thyrza wants to go, she goes —and when 
I ordered the wool from the Beehive I distinctly 
said canary^ but seems to me it’s more on the 
mustard-” 

The talk veered to Mrs. Douty’s baby, a recent 
acquisition, and whether or not she had had a “hard 
time” was discussed with gusto. The bride was 
told that she must not let this discourage her, and 
instantly put on a rather pinched expression. Mrs. 



120 A Pocketful of Poses 

Douty had been attended by Dr. Bellamy, and con¬ 
sidered him unsympathetic: she said briskly: “Why, 
from the very first minute I became pregnant-” 

Details followed. Marigold looked at her with 
cold dislike, so hard and bright and cock-sure. She 
hated this girl, who, like herself, had felt Don’s 
arms about her, had known Don’s kisses; and she 
knew that Dorothy Douty hated her. 

The entrance of the gentlemen put an end to the 
obstetrical details; and the Wind-Blown Daffodil 
revived, and launched into an anecdote in which 
her curls figured prominently. Judge Prout trotted 
Marigold on a mental knee: she felt that she was 
not making much of an impression, that instead of 
realizing that she was a lovely, tragic figure (as 
indeed she was) they only thought she was less 
smartly dressed than they. Yielding to snobbish¬ 
ness, she dragged her godmother. Granny’s old 
friend Countess de Rodellec, into the conversation 
by main force, without visible effect on her com¬ 
panions. Presently Mrs. Boynton said, “Well, 
Marigold—,” and it was time to tell Mrs. Prout 
how much they had enjoyed the evening. 

There had been no one there who could help her: 
soon she would learn that there never would be any 
one: she would learn to give up the faint hope of 
escape. Donald in setting her free had made her 
a prisoner forever. 

She could not go away, because if she left Mrs. 



121 


Posing for Mrs, Boynton 

Boynton she had not the least idea of where to go 
or what to do. Here she was—here she must stay. 
She who had pretended for so long must go on pre¬ 
tending now: she had once pretended to him that 
she loved him; now she must pretend to be what 
every one believed her; sweet; gentle; devoted to 
the mother of the man who had loved her; and heart¬ 
broken for him. 


CHAPTER IX 


COLLAPSE 

M rs. BOYNTON and Marigold got up at 
seven o’clock every morning; not because 
there was anything in particular to get up for, but 
because Mrs. Boynton always had. At breakfast 
Marigold waited apprehensively to learn Mrs. 
Boynton’s mood for the day: sometimes she was 
cheerful and affectionate, full of conversation and 
brisk plans: on other mornings she was gloomy and 
morose, her eyes not meeting Marigold’s. When 
she spoke, her almost inaudible voice would come 
from between stiff, barely moving lips, opened as 
little as possible. On these days she would sit in 
her room holding some toy that had been Donald’s 
when he was a child, or a packet of his letters, gaz¬ 
ing straight before her with eyes that sometimes 
burned feverishly and sometimes ran over with tears. 
Her body would be tense and rigid; the whole house 
would be electric until the breaking of the in¬ 
evitable storm of lamentation for her dead son. 

If she was feeling cheerful, a frenzy of house¬ 
keeping took place after breakfast. She would shout 

orders over the telephone; shout to the kitchen to 

122 


Collapse 123 

ask if it was sago or tapioca the cook had wanted; 
shout to the ‘‘second girl” to say that she could not 
hear the grocer at the other end of the wire because 
of the vacuum cleaner, which roared through the 
house at all hours of the day. She would have 
long intimate conversations with the cook of the 
moment as she ordered the meals. “Mr. Boynton 
really used to worship me,” she would say: “You 
said two loaves of bread, didn’t you, Annie? He 
could hardly bear me out of his sight, not much 
like the way things are to-day, with all the divorces 
you hear about, and when I was sick he used to 
act like a wild man; when I was in the hospital 
for my operation he lost fifteen pounds just through 
worrying. I think greening apples would be all 
right for coddling, don’t you? Or maybe it would 
be better to use up the canned blackberries and 
have a flummery—what do you think?” She en¬ 
joyed herself thoroughly. 

There was nothing for Marigold to do; she did 
not want her help. “It isn’t as if there would be 
any use of your learning how to keep house, dear,”' 
she said: “Of course if Donald had lived it would 
have been my greatest happiness to teach his little 
wife everything I could, but now it doesn’t seem 
worth bothering your head about it, since you won’t 
ever have to run a house of your own.” Margiold 
seemed to hear again, as she had heard so often, the 
clash of the prison gates. 


124 A Pocketful of Poses 

After the empty morning came luncheon; and 
the afternoon, empty, too, of any reality. Some¬ 
times friends of Mrs. Boynton’s came to gossip or 
play bridge; sometimes Mrs. Boynton and Marigold 
paid a call. Marigold tried to pretend to herself 
that reading and walking were enough to make 
contentment: but she was so tired and listless all 
the time now that she walked less and less: and 
books had lost much of their old magic. Her brain 
felt hot and heavy, and it was hard to concentrate 
on anything. 

At the time that at home had been tea-time, and 
the pleasantest hour of the day. Marigold’s worst 
homesickness always came over her, drowning her 
heart in its bitter flood. She ached then for Granny 
sitting by the fire, or in her basket chair under the 
big cedar on the lawn; she ached for cross little 
Coco, living now with the Hoppers; she could see 
his wet pink tongue lolling out of his mouth as 
his anxious eyes followed each morsel of bread and 
butter; she ached for the close-shaven lawn; the 
foxgloves turning to spires of seeds; the bees loud 
in the lavender bushes; or, as the year turned from 
gold to silver, for firelight leaping on familiar walls. 
Home, her sick heart cried, home, with its shining 
serenity and secret beauty! 

After dinner she read aloud from books of Mrs. 
Boynton’s choice, books in which strong silent heroes 
with crooked smiles provided plenty of incident; 


Collapse 125 

or in which penniless little Irish girls with a laugh 
in the heart o’ them and a tear in the eye o’ them 
won the adoration of everybody. Then, at ten 
o’clock every night, Mrs. Boynton, patting back 
a yawn, would glance at the clock and be astonished 
at the hour. “Mercy, I had no idea it was so late!” 
she would exclaim: “Where’s the evening gone to^ 
Well—all aboard for Dream-Land!” 

Day after day, day after day. 

They were all the same, except that at first they 
had held the sound of whirring lawn-mowers, and 
Marigold had picked rose-bugs from the rose-bushes 
into cocoa-tins of kerosene: then came the smell of 
burning leaves, and she had helped in getting out 
blankets done up in newspapers and camphor: now 
the days were cold, and coal-carts creaked over the 
snow: but they were the same days, each one like 
the last, and each heavy with memories of Donald. 
Through the day his mother would talk of him: 
more than once she cried with sudden violence: 
“You mustn’t ever forget Donald, Marigold! You 
mustn’t ever stop loving him—ever! Ever!” Or 
she said, with trembling lips and tear-filled eyes: 
“What would we do without each other, now that 
we haven’t Donny? I should just die of loneliness. 
We must always cling together, mustn’t we. Mari¬ 
goldAnd Marigold would think again the old 
torturing thought: “If he’d never known me, Don 



126 A Pocketful of Poses 

would be here with her now. It’s my fault that 
Don is dead.” 

She was more nearly exhausted by the last two 
years than any one realized. The strain of her 
engagement; the demands of Don’s passion that she 
so soon had had to meet with pretense; the shock 
of his death, and of her grandmother’s; and the 
terror of the future, had left her mind and body 
quiveringly sensitive. She was not strong enough 
to bear the recurrent thought that beat in her brain: 
“Don is dead because of me.” 

She walked through her days in a dreaming fever, 
indifferent to all the things that once had made 
her happiness. What had happened to her, who 
had held the world in her heartOnce her life 
had glowed and trembled with colour and beauty. 
From her travels with her father when she was a 
child, and from her books, she kept a thousand 
vivid pictures, clear and bright and touching as the 
little landscapes seen through the peep-holes in 
Easter-eggs: mimosa-trees, fountains of powdery 
gold, flung like spray against the swooning blue of 
a Southern sky: sea-gulls crying and calling in the 
mist, and the grey sea rushing past: wild hyacinths 
in an English wood, staining the whole earth blue: 
a procession in a Spanish village on Corpus Christ! 
Day, little altar boys in lace and scarlet carrying 
candles taller than themselves, and the two gigan¬ 
tic figures of Jesus and Mary, as high as the house- 


Collapse 127 

tops, mincing along with the steps of the men who 
bore them forward, hidden under their skirts that 
were hung with ribbons and jewels and lace. But 
now she only saw walls—walls that shut her in 
with a dead man, dead because of her, and a dead 
man’s mother. 

Where had the shining inner life gone, the clair¬ 
voyant moments when she had caught her fleeting 
gleams of HeavenOnce she had known what it 
was to be so happy that her heart was like a clear 
wave that lifts itself, translucent green and gold, 
against the sun. Where was her secret happiness 
now? 

She could not sleep, and the nights had grown 
terrible to her. She remembered with wonder the 
time when she had thought that not to sleep well 
was something rather fine and delicate; when it 
had been one of her little poses. Now she longed 
for sleep as a man dying from thirst longs for 
water. She would lie in the darkness, every nerve 
tense, her neck aching, her back aching, little hot 
needle-points pricking her skin, while the bed grew 
hard and the sheets hot and crumpled. She would 
lie dreading the widening of the streak of faint 
light that told her her door was being pushed open; 
dreading the whispering voice that would say: 
‘‘Marigold! Are you awake? I got to thinking 
about Donny, and I couldn’t go to sleep—let’s talk 
about our boy a little.” 



128 A Pocketful of Poses 

Worse than the sleepless nights were the nights 
of dreams. Night after night she would see Don, 
always in some peril that only she could save him 
from. Dark water, glistening like oil, would close 
over his face, and her hand would not go out to 
him; or with a great black rushing a giant pine-tree 
would fall on him, at first slanting over so slowly 
that she could have saved him, but she could neither 
move nor make a sound. Sometimes she saw him 
walking with groping hands, blind, but she could 
not reach his side to guide him before he crashed 
sickeningly against some stony corner. Sometimes 
she saw crouching behind him beastly figures, luna¬ 
tics, or dwarfs, creeping up on him, but she could 
not warn him. Worst of all were the dreams in 
which everything was nebulous, a mist of sick pain 
and despair, through which his voice called her 
name in agony. 

She would wake with a start, trembling, and 
burning with fever; or she would lie for hours shak¬ 
ing with sobs, crushing her hands against her mouth 
so that Mrs. Boynton should not hear her. She 
would cry until she was sick and dizzy, and then 
lie exhausted until the windows grew grey with 
the coming of another heavy day. 

Sometimes when she could not lie still she would 
roam about the house, moving through the dark¬ 
ness with outspread fumbling hands. Gathered 
into herself as she felt her way with cautious steps, 


Collapse 129 

or huddled beside an open window to drink the cold 
air feverishly, she felt as if she had become an old 
woman, bent over and afraid, moving with dragging 
steps towards the darkness of death. Body and soul, 
she felt like a dead leaf, that no rain nor sun can 
ever make tender and vivid again. 

On Sunday afternoons she and Mrs. Boynton 
visited Don’s grave, carrying the dozen white roses 
for which Mr. McGrath the florist had a standing 
order. Frank, the coloured man who cut the grass, 
took care of the furnace, and ran the motor-car, 
liked to spend Sunday quietly with his family; so 
Marigold and Mrs. Boynton made the long trip in 
the crowded street-cars, and came home tired and 
depressed. They had been to the cemetery one 
January afternoon, and were standing on the front 
porch shaking the snow from their muffs, and stamp¬ 
ing their cold wet feet, when Dorothy Douty’s 
mother, Mrs. Marshall, came up the path. 

‘Well, Eva Boynton, I got to thinking I never 
would see you again! Seems like ages, doesn’t it? 
I told Mr. Marshall, ‘I haven’t seen Eva for so 
long. I’m just going to slip around this afternoon. 
I’m sure to catch her with a snow-storm like this!’ 
But I see even the snow hasn’t kept you from galli¬ 
vanting!” 

‘We’ve just been to the cemetery,” said Mrs. 
Boynton, in a voice calculated to quench her friend’s 


130 A Pocketful of Poses 

playfulness. Mrs. Marshall hastily adopted a more 
reverent tone. 

I “Eva, you’re wonderful! You never let any~ 
thing interfere with going to Donald’s grave, do 
you^? I wish I could tell you all the people I’ve 
heard say you were just their ideal of a Mother.” 
She gave listless Marigold a brisk squeeze. “I 
guess here’s one little girl who feels that way!” 

Marigold made a polite sound. They let them¬ 
selves in, for the maids, as well as Frank, preferred 
not to work on Sundays: the house seemed hot and 
stuffy after the snow-hlled air, and Sunday papers 
were strewn about the parlour. 

“Well!” said Mrs. Marshall, settling herself in 
an armchair: “This is what I call comfy! I love to 
be all cozy and snug when it’s storming outside, 
don’t you^ Well, girls, I have a piece of news for 
you, but you must promise not to breathe a word 
to a single soul. When Dorothy told me, she said, 
‘I’d like Mrs. Boynton to know’—she certainly has 
a warm spot in her heart for you, Eva—and I know 
she wouldn’t mind Marigold knowing, too. She’s 
expecting again!” 

Mrs. Boynton’s eyes filled with tears, as they 
usually did at any mention of babies, no matter 
how indirect; and she sighed heart-brokenly. 

“At first when Dorothy told me, I thought it 
was too soon—Junior’s only a year old now, you 
.know—but it won’t be till July-” 



Collapse 131 

“And it will be lovely for Junior to have a lit¬ 
tle brother or sister so nearly his age,” Mrs. Boyn¬ 
ton sighed. 

“Yes, that’s what I tell Dorothy. I say while 
you’re having them, you might as well have them 
all together, and get through with it. I knew you’d 
be interested on account of-.” Shcbroke off sud¬ 

denly, affecting a cough, and glancing at Marigold. 

“Wouldn’t you like me to get you some tea, Mrs. 
Boynton?” Marigold asked. 

“Why, I hardly believe we care for any, dear— 
or would you like some, Carrie?” 

“To tell you the truth, I would^ Eva.” 

“I let the girls go out on Sunday, it seems to 
mean so much to them, so we don’t put on much 
style, but if you don’t mind that -” 

Mrs. Marshall said facetiously: “Mercy yes! I 
insist on style! Well, as I was saying, 
Dorothy-” 

“Marigold! Excuse me, Carrie. Marigold, if 
you make toast, use the loaf in the soup-tureen, 
the one in the bread-can is fresh bread. In the big 
covered soup-tureen on the kitchen dresser. I beg 
your pardon, you were saying Dorothy-?” 

Marigold moved about the kitchen, putting the 
kettle on to boil, and cutting the bread for toast. 
She had a strange feeling of floating, nothing 
seemed real or solid: her head seemed to float up 
from her body, growing huge and light like a great 






132 A Pocketful of Poses 

balloon. Going into the dining-room for cups and 
saucers, she heard the women’s voices. 

‘'Of course Walter’s a dear, and we’re devoted to 
him, but to tell you the truth, Eva, I don’t think 
Dorothy’s ever cared for anybody quite the way 
she cared for Donald.” 

“Carrie, I can’t bear it! To think that this 
might be Donny’s baby that’s coming! Because I 
know he and Dorothy would have made it up again 
if only he hadn’t met Marigold. Oh, I try not 
to complain, but I can’t help thinking all the time 
that if Donald had never seen her he’d be alive 
and well to-day!” 

Marigold thought: “I don’t care: I’m too tired 
to care.” She went to the window and pressed her 
hot forehead to the cold glass. She looked at the 
air full of whirling snow-flakes. Babies. Fat little 
bodies, creased little ankles and wrists, heads as 
downy as ducklings. The air seemed full of them, 
tumbling and whirling, a storm of babies instead 
of a storm of snow. The babies she must never 
have. 

She heard the women’s voices, faint but clear, 
like voices in a dream: 

“It hurts to think I’ll never hold Donald’s babies 
in my arms.” 

“And you are so wonderful with children, too!” 

“The kiddies and I understand each other. You 
can’t fool the little folks, you know; they know who 


Collapse 133 

loves them. Sometimes I try to talk, so lovingly 
and tenderly, to Marigold of what Donald’s kiddies 
would have been like-” 

Marigold heard her own voice say: “I can’t stand 
it!” She tried to stop the voice that screamed: “I 
can’t stand it!” but it was not her voice any longer 
—it had gone beyond any control of hers. She 
saw Mrs. Boynton coming towards her, and Mrs. 
Marshall. 

It was not only the people who hurried to her 
that she shrank from, crying ‘'Don’t touch me!” 
It was life that pressed against her too closely. 

“Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!” 

Marigold fell screaming to the floor, as waves 
roared in her ears, and black waves broke over 
her head. Sinking through darkness and stars, she 
could hear a voice screaming: “Don’t touch me! 
Don’t touch me!” 

Sucked down by a thundering whirlpool, she sank 
to silence. 



CHAPTER X 


GEORGE 

H ilda Bellamy was the only child of a 
rich man, who would have nothing to do with 
her after she married a poor country doctor: Wil¬ 
liam Fairchild had intended more magnificent 
things for his daughter; a title, at least. Hilda shed 
a few tears, but she was too happy to care very 
much: her life was filled by her husband, and by 
the little child of their passionate love- 

Her father went from spa to spa, held the fluffy 
parasols of grand duchesses along the Riviera, or 
skated at St. Moritz. Hilda sometimes saw photo¬ 
graphs in the illustrated weeklies—“The names, 
reading from left to right, are Baron de Thurn, 
Lady Ursula Hamilton, the Hon. Ivy Kepp-Rus- 

sell, Mr. W. Fairchild-’’ 

“There is your dear Grandpapa,’’ his daughter 
would say, pointing him out to her little son George. 

After George Bellamy was grown to be a man, 
he drew his memories from the enchanted bran-pie 
of childhood. He remembered the time when he 
was so small that daisies waved above his head, and 

a droning bee almost blotted out the sky: he re- 

134 




George 135 

membered his donkey, on which he sat proudly, his 
fat legs sticking straight out on either side: his 
rabbits, their twitching noses close together, telling 
each other the secrets that a little boy could never 
know. 

The garden covered half the world then, and he 
and his mother had played together there, being 
Indians under the sweeping branches of the pine- 
trees, or having wild games with the brightly-banded 
croquet balls; or they had worked together in the 
borders, setting out seedlings in the wet earth, until 
his mother would cry: “Oh, little George, you are 
the dirtiest little boy in the whole world! Your 
face is so dirty that if I planted seeds on it they 
would grow! Fm going to plant one right on the 
end of your nose!” When they went in his nurse 
would roll out the big green tub, that made such a 
rumbling as it came down the hall, and he would 
splash in the warm soapy water until his bath toys 
rocked on the waves. 

Then his mother died; and he and his father 
lived alone in the big old house. Weeds grew 
in the garden; and ashes were grey where fires had 
blazed before; but gentleness and courtesy re¬ 
mained. George had adored his mother; his father 
he loved with a protective tenderness strange to find 
in a little boy. Dr. Bellamy taught his son, and 
talked to him: George hardly felt the need of other 
friends. He was a shy, sensitive child. In his 


136 A Pocketful of Poses 

father’s library, that long dark room where the 
empty marble fireplace, the lusters dripping from 
the unlit lamps, the glass doors of the tall book¬ 
cases, glimmered like things seen dimly under water, 
he pored'over books until the world seemed to re¬ 
volve before him, covered with bright and terrible 
beauties. He began collections; and frowsy nests, 
pasteboard boxes full of cocoons, and jars of thick 
greenish liquid containing dead tadpoles, were to 
be found in unexpected places about the house. 
He brought home sick kittens, lame dogs, and young 
birds that had fallen from their nests: he took care 
of them, fed them in spite of the cook’s protests, 
named them and loved them. 

He invented a playmate named Bill, and had 
long games with him that continued for weeks, 
under the pine-tree boughs, or in the woods beside 
the brook which ran between banks where clustered 
ferns thrust up curled furry heads. He wrote and 
drew in an old copy-book, that he kept hidden 
away: it was called “Bill’s Book”, and there were 
pictures of Bill, Bill’s house. Bill’s horse. Bill’s 
ship, in which his secret friend went to all the 
strange lands that coloured George’s thoughts. 

Sometimes another boy played with him in the 
woods, when the Bellamys’ neighbors, the Currys, 
came from Paris for a short stay in their American 
home—the big country house, so hideous and grand 
with its port-cochere and cupola, its ribbon borders 


George 137 

planted with rippling stripes of blue lobelias, yel¬ 
low calceolarias, and red geraniums, and its hot¬ 
houses, where great bunches of white and purple 
grapes hung heavy. 

Hugo Curry was five years younger than George, 
a delicate and lonely little boy, already rather 
bored with life. George would make willow 
whistles for him, and show him how to find the 
queer creatures that live in brooks, and he grew 
rather fond of the sallow, black-haired child, with 
his queer French clothes—tight suits of blue jersey, 
and black slippers and white socks. But he was 
really happiest when he was by himself. Even 
as a child the great and little gifts of beauty 
were his; and the pain of beauty was in his eager 
heart. 

Seeking and pursued by eternal truth, he walked 
through life; longing to touch all men, and always 
alone. 

George was to follow his father, and be a doctor; 
they planned to work together in the little hospital 
that Dr. Bellamy had started. But during-his first 
year at college his father died. A few months later 
his grandfather, Mr. Fairchild, died in Rome, leav¬ 
ing his money to George, because there was no one 
else to leave it to except a clinging nephew that 
he rather despised; and because he really had loved 
his daughter, in a selfish way, and had missed her. 


138 


A Pocketful of Poses 

' George finished college—a time of visions, of 
night-long conversations in front of the fire, ending 
with long walks in the cold dawn; of experiments 
in friends, in thought, in modes of life. He and 
his friends moved with their heads knocking against 
the stars: they got drunk, and roared gloriously to¬ 
gether; or they talked of the sorrow and emptiness 
of life while they ate enormous quantities of toasted 
muffins. Then he went to Germany, to finish his 
medical studies; and after that, before he came 
home, he traveled in strange countries, always hunt¬ 
ing for the secret beauty and wonder of life that 
beckoned from temple windows, that flashed in 
the flight of bright flamingoes, or in the sunlight 
falling on naked brown bodies under interlacing 
tree-ferns—beckoned, and disappeared. 

But wherever he went, a slender thread bound 
him, and at last drew him back, to the old grey 
house among the pine trees. 

The house, like all houses that have been dearly 
loved, had personality and atmosphere. Its rooms 
were delicately haunted by ghosts of love and laugh¬ 
ter and tears. The oldest part of the house was 
stiff and straight, with great high-ceilinged rooms, 
but on each side were additions full of quaint turns 
and twists, little unexpected rooms all up and down 
small flights of steps. An enchanting house for 
children to play hide-and-seek in, on rainy days. 
Around three sides of it, and its lawns and neglected 




George 139 

flower-beds, the pine trees stood, their branches 
sweeping the lawn, that now was almost covered 
with vivid velvet moss. At the foot of the garden 
an old grape-arbour led to the orchard, where 
twisted apple-trees stood in fine bright grass; be¬ 
yond this, through a meadow, lay the wood; beyond 
the wood, a clearing at the top of the high cliffs 
that dropped to the river. 

Goerge Bellamy came back to his father’s house, 
and took up his father’s work in the hospital, and 
with the people who lived in the little tov/n, and 
in the country surrounding it. There had never 
for a moment been a question in his mind as to 
how the money left him by his grandfather must 
be used. He poured it into the hospital, keeping 
‘little for himself. 

He lived alone except for fluctuating flotsam and 
jetsam of servants. He knew some of the men 
in the town well; he golfed and rode with them; 
and they considered themselves his intimate friends; 
but he kept his visions to himself. 

Outwardly perfectly self-confident, he hid his 
shyness and eagerness behind a reserve that gave 
him the reputation of being unsympathetic. Ladies 
disliked him because he told them the truth, and 
he had no vestige of “bed-side manner”; however, 
they sent for him when they were sick, for he was 
becoming well-known: his book on nervous diseases 
was quoted as an authority. As for him, he was 


140 


A Pocketful of Poses 

indifferent to what they thought of him: tolerant of 
people in the mass, he was apt to be intolerant of 
them as individuals, except when they were really 

ill. 

On the January day when Marigold Trent fell 
screaming to the floor, Mrs. Boynton sent for Dr. 
Bellamy, and he took Marigold to his hospital. 

The snow fell softly and steadily, covering Mari¬ 
gold as she lay in her bed. It drifted up to her 
chin, it made snow-covered mountain-peaks of her 
lifted knees. But it could not cover her face, be¬ 
cause her head was so hot that it melted the snow. 
The white flakes floated down softly—not snow¬ 
flakes after all, petals from branches of apple-blos¬ 
som, silvery in the moonlight. But there were 
snakes that slid along those branches, and fell down 
onto the bed—gleaming and grey, they fell on her, 
twisting and slipping over her body, trying to reach 
her face. 

The little motor-car tore along over the coverlet 
—over the snowy mountains. Don was driving it, 
afraid he would be late for his wedding. She 
watched him, tiny as a toy, and when he reached 
the edge of the bed, she knew she must push him 
into the black pit below. No matter how des¬ 
perately she struggled against it, her hand went 
out, pushing the tiny car over the edge. 



George 141 

People whispered and laughed about her bed, 
and, when they whispered, the gleaming grey snakes 
slipped out of their mouths and fell writhing on 
her body. They said: “She doesn’t know she’s dead 
—she thinks she’s in bed, but she’s buried beside 
Don—she thinks this white is a spread over her, 
she doesn’t know it’s the daisies in bloom, spring¬ 
ing out of her body-” She could not tell whether 

she was hearing the whispering of the people or 
the hissing of the snakes. 

Babies crawled over the bed, solemn and fat and 
pink. But they melted like snow-flakes at the touch 
of her hot hands. 

Snow, falling and drifting, covering the mounds 
of the graves. 

Sometimes when the little motor-car came tearing 
around a fold in the bedclothes, and Marigold felt 
her hands going out, cautiously, to push it over the 
edge of the bed, other hands took hers, and held 
them: strong hands that would not let her do the 
thing that made her soul sick. The hands would 
not let her kill Don against her will: they held 
her, and strength and peace entered her from them. 

While the hands held her wrists that felt as 
weak as if they were made of mist, the whispering 
people about her bed drew back into the shadows: 
the dwarf without a nose, who crouched at the foot 



142 A Pocketful of Poses 

of the bed, watching her, vanished too. Peace came 
about her, like the welling-up of cool water. The 
things were only hiding: when the strong hands 
were no longer there, they came again. But they 
were afraid of the hands. 

Sometimes through the fog of fever she saw a 
man, and knew he was a doctor: she saw women, 
and realized that they were nurses: she saw the 
door, the windows,- a crack that ran across the ceil¬ 
ing like a river on a map. Questions that she was 
too tired to ask formed in her mind, and important 
messages that she must deliver remained agonizingly 
just around the corner of consciousness. Then the 
fog would close in again; the tangible shapes would 
grow dim and disappear; the grey people would 
come back; or her spirit would float high in the 
air, looking down through falling snow at her body 
lying drowned in a grey sea, stirring a little with 
the slow waves. 

But one day she opened her eyes and saw a still 
white room. The windows were open, and bars 
of sunlight fell between the chinks of the bowed 
shutters. Everything was clean and bare and still. 
She saw a woman sitting by the window, looking 
out and yawning. On a table by her bed were 
violets in a loose cluster, fresh and cool. The little 
blue flowers, lifted on strong and delicate stems, 
stabbed her heart with their beauty. It was as 
though she looked through crystal air at some divine 


George 143 

miracle: tears rose in her eyes, and ran down on to 
her pillow. She lay still, weak and happy, until 
she fell asleep. 

When she awoke again, the woman was looking 
down at her. There was something wet and cold 
on her head. The windows were wide open now, 
and she could see little new leaves on the branches 
outside. She whispered: 

“The snow^’ 

“Why, the snow’s all gone, dear. It’s spring 
now.” 

This was too difficult to bother about. She lay, 
looking at the black specks that circled and crawled 
on the ceiling, until a man came in and sat down 
by her bed. He was tall and quiet, with clear blue 
eyes, and at first she thought she had never seen 
him before: but presently he took her hands in 
his, and then she knew that he was her friend, her 
strength and her comfort, whose hands had pulled 
her up out of the drowning sea, and had kept her 
from doing terrible things against her will. He 
would make everything clear to her. She said 
weakly: “Those black spots—crawling*?” 

“They’ll go away soon,” he said. “You see them 
because you are weak. You’ve been ill, but now you 
are going to get well.” 

“The other things—will they come back?” 

“They won’t come back again: they’ve gone for 
good.” 




144 


A Pocketful of Poses 

“Mrs. Boynton- 

“You can see her when you get strong, not yet.. 
She sends her love to you.” 

“Where am IT 

“This is the hospital. Now you’re to go to sleep.” 

But Marigold, turning her head, had seen the 
violets again: and again the tears streamed from 
her eyes. She whispered apologetically, managing 
a watery smile: “Silly-!” Then, as if it ex¬ 
plained everything: “The violets-” 

George Bellamy’s rather heavy face lit up beauti¬ 
fully : he had brought that bunch, and other bunches, 
hoping that she might notice them: he wished that 
she could see them as they grew under his hemlock 
hedge. Marigold knew he understood why she was 
crying; that he understood that the delicate dewy 
flowers expressed for her inexpressible things. 

The long hospital days flowed past while strength 
came back to Marigold slowly. She had never 
realized how wonderful life was before: she saw 
everything with the crystal-clear vision that severe 
illness gives: the vision, like a revelation, that comes 
with separation from the purely physical part of 
being. She lay and thought, and everything she 
thought about seemed as simple as a drop of water, 
and as deep as the ocean. Clouds drifting past her 
window—broth—mouse-like Miss Quackenbush, 
the day-nurse, whose name had been so heart-break¬ 
ing to remember at first—Miss Patterson, the night- 





George 145 

nurse, with her red hair and her pink cheeks and 
her stories of patients who had fallen in love 
with her—cracked ice—cologne—God—dying—her 
hands that were now so white and thin—Dr. 
Bellamy. 

He was the strength that held her days together. 
They talked very little; he would feel her pulse, 
ask a few questions, and go on: but he always left 
her feeling refreshed and peaceful. She could not 
understand why his coming put the nurses into an 
apprehensive fever of preparation. Miss Quacken- 
bush would dart about the -room twitching the al¬ 
ready even blinds, and smoothing a wrinkle in Mari¬ 
gold’s covers: (“Oh, Miss Trent, dearie, couldn’t 
you just lie still till Dr. Bellamy comes? The bed 
looks so awful when you move around, and he’ll 
be here any minute now; I heard the whistle quarter 
of an hour ago!”) She would be trembling until 
Dr. Bellamy had gone on his royal way, attended by 
head nurse and ward nurse and interne, carrying 
panic to other hearts fluttering with agitation under 
their starched blue and white stripes. 

“Why do you worry so about him?” Marigold 
asked Miss Quackenbush. 

“Oh, he’s so particular^ Miss Trent, he nearly 
kills you if everything isn’t just so. He talked to 
Miss Clark yesterday so that she cried for half an 
hour in the linen closet. When you don’t do things 
the right way he sort of looks clear through you, and 



146 A Pocketful of Poses 

then says something in that cold reserved sarcastic 
way he has—you just want to sink through the floor. 
He’s a wonderful doctor, but my, he scares me 
nearly to death!” 

Miss Patterson agreed with Miss Quackenbush. 

“1 never heard him say anything sarcastic,” said 
Marigold. 

“Oh, you! I guess you haven’t! You’re regular 
Teacher’s Pet with Dr. Bellamy, Miss Trent.” 

“Yes, ma’am, you/ Why, the way he treats you, 
any one would think you were almost as good as a 
child or an old man. He isn’t a woman hater— 
mercy no, he wouldn’t pay us the compliment of 
wasting that much good feeling on us: he just 
naturally doesn’t know we exist. It nearly kills me 
to see some of the private patients fix up for him 
—pink silk bed-jackets, and lace caps with rosebuds, 
and their faces just sol with sweetness—and then, 
as I say, beyond so many sets of lungs and livers 
and so on, he never even knows that they exist. 
But he knows you exist, all right.” 

“How perfectly absurd,” protested Marigold, 
much pleased. 

“When you were sickest there were nights he’d 
never go home at all, just sit here holding your 
hands by the hour because it quieted you. He’s 
wonderful with patients, you’ve got to give the 
Devil his due, I suppose, and I’ll say for Dr. Bel- 



George 147 

lamy he may work you hard, but he works himself 
a lot harder—but I never saw him work over a 
patient the way he did over you, Miss Trent. Then 
of course he’s always bringing you flowers and ferns 
and stuff—still, that’s not unusual, he often does 
that to the patients, particularly the mental cases; 
he has some theory about it. But I never saw him 
let himself go with a patient before, the way he 
does with you, generally he shuts up like a clam, 
except, as I say, with the children and the old men 
—they’re crazy about him. But women— good- 
ness!” 

‘Tsn’t he married?” asked Marigold, mildly 
hoping, on general principles, that he was not. 

“Miss Trent! Do you want to make me die 
laughing? I’d be sorry for his wife if he was!” 

Marigold, who was beginning to be herself again, 
indulged in pleasant fancies after this conversation. 
Had she, lying fragile and white, opened with her 
very weakness the heart that no strength could open? 
This engaging idea remained with her until Dr. 
Bellamy’s next visit; when it melted like mist in 
the morning before his business-like words and the 
placid light in his blue eyes behind their horn¬ 
rimmed spectacles. Certainly no secret fires blazed 
there. Also, it was difficult to think of herself as 
a frail white flower while she was engaged in the 
business of putting out,her tongue. It was a relief 
to go back to her old feeling about him: trusting 




148 A Pocketful of Poses 

his strength and wisdom, feeling sure of his quiet 
understanding, and not having to take care to show 
herself to him in the most favorable, light. He 
was the one person in the world she need not pre¬ 
tend to: she could show herself as uninteresting 
and as uninterested as she pleased. She need no 
more pose for him than she need pose for the tree 
that shaded her or the spring that gave her a drink. 

But she posed for the nurses. As she grew 
stronger from day to day, she perfected herself in 
her new role: Marigold, the Sunshine of the Hos¬ 
pital. She loved to hear Miss Quackenbush’s cries 
, of admiration. 

‘'Oh, Miss Trent, I took the carnations home to 
my boarding house, and we had them on the table 
in the parlour where all the folks could enjoy them, 
and I told them all my little lady at the hospital 
gave them to me, and my, didn’t they think you 
were generous!” 

Or: 

“I took your jelly in to that poor old Irishwoman 
in Ward B the way you asked me to. Miss Trent, 
dearie, and she was so pleased she nearly burst 
out crying. Miss McClellan was on duty, and she 
said, ‘Well, if you haven’t got the thoughtful pa¬ 
tient!’ She said, Tt’s not many patients are as 
thoughtful as Miss Trent!’ ” 

She had not yet been allowed to see any one 
besides the doctors and nurses, although Mrs. Boyn- 


George 149 

ton came to the hospital every day to inquire, leav¬ 
ing her love and bowls of jelly; but one day Dr. 
Bellamy said: 

“Would you like to see Mrs. Boynton to-mor¬ 
row?” 

“Oh, must I?” Marigold cried, with real terror 
in her voice. 

“Good Lord, child, of course not, if you don’t 
want to.” 

The old despair came back, slowly, like the first 
ripples that show the tide is coming in. Of course 
she had known that in time she must go back to 
Mrs. Boynton; that the clear quiet days must come 
to an end; but not yet! Panic took hold of her. 
She called to him who had saved her before. 

“Dr. Bellamy—could I tell you how things are? 
I don’t know what to do—I don’t know how to 
begin, exactly—you’ll despise me—I despise my¬ 
self-” 

“Rot!” 

“I’m not very happy,” said Marigold. She added, 
with a shaky smile: “I suppose I’m not the first 
woman to tell you that.” 

It was to Dr. Bellamy’s credit that he only said 
mildly: “Well—some of them have,” thus dis¬ 
missing the legion of ladies who had hinted of secret 
suffering and hidden tragedy. 

“Could I tell you about it from the beginning? 
I’ve thought about it until I’m nearly crazy, and I 



150 


A Pocketful of Poses 

don’t know what to do. Maybe you know I was 
engaged to Mrs. Boynton’s son?” 

“Yes, I know.” 

“Did you know he was killed the day we were 
to have been married? And you probably think 
that grieving for him is what made me ill—but it 
wasn’t that—I killed him.” 

“Tell me how.” 

“I told him I didn’t love him, just the night 
before. I hadn’t loved him for ever so long, but 
I kept on pretending I did, because—I—. Every 
one thinks it was an accident, but I know he killed 
himself because of what I told him. I can’t stop 
thinking about it. Dr. Bellamy, you don’t know 
what it’s like-!” 

He wiped away her tears with his own handker¬ 
chief. “Listen to me,” he said: “You’re crazy; 
you didn’t kill him any more than I did. Ten to 
one it was an accident, and if it wasn’t, think of 
the thousands of men and women who are turned 
down, and go on making a decent job of life after¬ 
wards.” 

“Mrs. Boynton thinks I killed him—she says lit¬ 
tle things all the time—Dr. Bellamy, I wish I could 
die.” 

“Don’t be silly. But why, in heaven’s name, do 
you go on living with her?” 

“You see, if I killed her son, I ought to give my 
life up to her.” 




George 151 

“Good Lord, what rubbish! Haven’t you some 
one else to go to, some one you would be happier 
with?’ 

“No—there isn’t any one.” 

“Why not live by yourself, then^? Girls do, you 
know, and certainly it would be pleasanter.” 

“But I haven’t any money—at least, only such 
a tiny bit.” 

“Can’t you do anything to support yourself^” 

“Nothing very much. I’m afraid. I taught some 
little children once, but I don’t really know any¬ 
thing. I’ve read aloud a good deal—and my grand¬ 
mother used to like the way I arranged flowers; per¬ 
haps I could be a companion, or something, do you 
think?’ 

He wondered what would become of her, lonely 
and lovely and frail. She should have lived in an 
earlier day, when women were hedged about and 
hoodwinked: when she would have had a husband 
who only asked for sweet looks and gentle ways, 
who could have given her a hearth before which 
she would have embroidered his slippers, and a gar¬ 
den where her hoopskirts would have brushed 
against the flowers and set them swaying. In the 
rushing present, where a lonely woman needs 
efficiency and strength and daring, needs to push 
for herself and to shout for herself, what would 
become of Marigold Trent ^ 

“You see. Dr. Bellamy, I’ll have to go back to 


152 A Pocketful of Poses 

Mrs. Boynton. Nobody else wants me—and she 
has been good to me—she has —but, oh, Fm so un- 
happy!’’ She dabbled at drowned eyes, and mur¬ 
mured brokenly: “Please excuse me!” 

George found it hard work^to keep from taking 
her in his arms and comforting her as he would 
have comforted a frightened child. More and more 
she was filling his thoughts, and he had been aston¬ 
ished at the lift of his heart when she told him 
she had not loved Donald Boynton. He had grown 
accustomed to people being rather afraid of him, 
and Marigold had won him at first by her instinc¬ 
tive turning to him; it was as engaging as the trust 
a lost puppy shows when it chooses you to follow 
out of all the world, sure that you will be its friend; 
it was as warming to the heart as a baby’s hand 
closing around your finger. Then, as her strength 
flowed back, her beauty shone for him, purified by 
her suffering, lighted from within. She lay in her 
coarse plain hospital nightgown, innocent of the 
obvious coquetry of lace and ribbons, her white 
face set in the gold of her hair, like a saint’s face 
against its nimbus, her lovely smile shining for him 
when he came. To George she seemed everything 
he had searched for all his life, a dream come true; 
beauty, innocence, truth itself, perfect and crystal- 
clear. 


CHAPTER XI 


KNITTING, SERVANTS, SALVIA, AND THE NEIGHBOURS 

M ISS PATTERSON told the other night 
nurses, over their midnight mutton hash and 
stewed apricots, that Dr. Bellamy had an honest- 
to-goodness case on the little Trent girl. '‘He’s 
sitting there talking to her almost every evening,” 
she said: "Honestly, girls, sometimes I think I must 
be dreaming! Hml Well, he took his time, but 
now that he’s fallen, he’s fallen ktvflop! And will 
you just kindly tell me how she vamped him? What 
I mean is, she’s cute enough, and sort of pretty, 
in a way, I suppose, but she’s not a bit the type that 
appeals to men-” 

On this subject Miss Patterson was an authority, 
and amplified her topic, giving as an illustration of 
the type that did appeal to men an anonymous 
but recognizable sketch of herself. 

"What do they talk about, Patterson?” asked 
another nurse. 

"Well, I haven’t been urged to stick around much, 
but this evening I got—let’s see—mountain-climb¬ 
ing, wax-works, salad-dressing, something else—oh, 

yes, tadpoles! Don’t you love it?” 

153 



154 


A Pocketful of Poses 

“Passionate topics,” remarked Miss Jackson, roll¬ 
ing up her napkin. 

“Well, I know, that’s all right, Jackson, but just 
compare it with great George’s usual tender and 
sunny chat—Tut out your tongue’—‘Turn over’—■ 
‘Grr-rr-rr!’ ” 

It was true that George had not for years been 
so human with any one as he was with Marigold. 
He felt young and exhilarated; it had been so long 
since he had talked anything but dry commomsense. 
She, too, let herself go with him, although at times 
his responses were disconcerting. She said one day: 

“Do you know, it’s awfully upsetting to try to 
have a conversation with you—you never make the 
answer I’ve planned, and then of course I can’t say 
my next speech.” 

“Do you mean you plan conversations ahead, like 
a play?” 

“Always. Don’t you? But it’s very discourag¬ 
ing—I’ve planned so many talks with you to show, 
perfectly casually, what an unusual girl I am, and 
how much I’ve read, and how many places I’ve been 
to, and you never give me a chance—you always 
go tearing off on another subject.” 

He gave a shout of laughter. 

“What do I tear off on?” 

“Subjects that show what an unusual person you 
are! Mountain-climbing, and liking storms at sea, 
and not being afraid of lions.” 



155 


The Neighbours 

‘‘I never said I wasn’t afraid of lions!” 

‘‘You said you rode your bicycle straight at one, 
and rang your bell, and he ran away.” 

“I only did it because I hadn’t my gun, and the 
bearers were back in the camp-” 

“Same thing, exactly. But you get your things 
said because I recognize my clues; for instance, 
when you say ‘ocean’, I say, ‘Oh, Dr. Bellamy, 
doesn’t a storm at sea terrify you?’ and then all you 
have to do is to convey to me modestly but unmis¬ 
takably what a brave man you are. But I tried 
ocean ever so hard with you, because I wanted to 
impress you with the number of times I’d crossed, 
and what a good sailor I am, and what did it make 
you switch off to? Whales^ and all they made you 
think of was that I was to try taking Mammala 
the next day!” 

“I’m sorry. The next time I go astray let out a 
yell, and I’ll try again. Let’s say ocean now.” 

“Oh, I wish we were on one!” said Marigold 
earnestly. 

“Gosh, so do I! With the water rushing past, 
all phosphorescent, and the mast swinging against 
the sky-” 

“With the stars around it like a swarm of golden 
bees.” She thought: “I’ve been wanting to say 
that for ever so long.” She added aloud: “The 
sailors on the French liners—do you remember? 
Dark blue tam-o’-shanters with scarlet pompons on 




156 


A Pocketful of Poses 

top—and violet-blue blouses, or black jerseys with 
green or orange stripes-’’ 

“Trousers rolled up to their knees,” said George: 
“and wooden shoes—can’t you hear them clattering 
up and down the decks*? And those fierce black 
moustaches, enough to frighten you into fits.” 

“Yes, if it weren’t for their gentle eyes.” 

“She would always see the best in every one,” 
he thought tenderly. 

Miss Patterson opened the door, looked in, and 
withdrew, murmuring, “Pardon me,” and George 
got up to go. 

“You know. I’m afraid you’re almost well enough 
to go home,” he said regretfully, looking down at 
her. Marigold sighed. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve been happy here.” 
Her eyes filled with emotional tears. “Dr. Bel¬ 
lamy, I haven’t known how—I’ve never thanked 
you for saving my life-” 

“Don’t mention it,” George replied politely. 

She laughed at herself, reluctantly, after he had 
gone. It was not the first time that he had made 
her feel as if a mental chair had been pulled out 
from under her as she went to sit down in a pretty 
attitude. He was so straightforward, so honest, 
everything about him was so real; there was no 
response there to affectation, to sentimentality or 
emotionalism. His truth was perfect and complete; 
she could not imagine him understanding shadings, 





157 


The Neighbours 

colourings, little flattering veils of misrepresenta¬ 
tion, polite pretenses, garlands of white lies soften¬ 
ing the outlines of ugly facts. 

She respected him more and liked him better 
than any man she had ever known, and to keep 
his good opinion seemed vitally important to her. 
She became imbued with the idea of utter sincerity. 
Never again would she indulge in even the most 
harmless posing. She flung herself into her new 
part—Truthful Marigold. 

She came back to the yellow house; she was an 
invalid no longer. Mrs. Boynton’s real kindness 
was touched with the faintest feeling of resent¬ 
ment; obscurely, she disliked any one ever having 
a harder time than she was having, but she com¬ 
forted herself with recollections of her own hospital 
days. 

She sat with her knitting, a pale blue baby- 
"sacque for Dorothy Douty, beside the hammock on 
the little upstairs porch where Marigold lay taking 
the afternoon rest that Dr. Bellamy had recom¬ 
mended; click-clack, went her needles; click-clack, 
went her tongue. 

“Don’t you think you might feel like getting up 
for your breakfast to-morrow morning, dear^ Not 
that I want to rush you, but it’s only that I can 
see Myrtle is getting sort of tired of fixing a tray, 
and goodness, if she goes I don’t know what I’ll do 


158 


A Pocketful of Poses 

—IVe had three since youVe been sick; I don’t 
know what’s gotten into girls nowadays, they don’t 
appreciate a good home a bit, and independent —/ 
Della, she was the one just before Myrtle, she left 
because I spoke perfectly pleasantly about finding 
snails walking around in the salad twice in succes¬ 
sion; I’m just tired to death with them. I declare, 
I’d like to have changed with you, and have a nice 
rest in bed!” 

“Of course I’ll get up to-morrow—I’ve been 
dreadfully lazy,” said Margiold, expecting to be 
contradicted. 

“Well, I’ve thought all along if you’d only make 
an efort —not just let yourself go —does this little 
sleeve look big enough to you^? Isn’t it wonderful 
to think anything can be little enough to wear that! 
It seems like a miracle—I often think we don’t 
half realize what a wonderful thing life is. I re¬ 
member when I first knew Donny was coming, I 
made some tiny little dresses, and then instead of 
saying anything to Mr. Boynton, why, I just let 
one fall out of my work-basket one evening, acci¬ 
dentally on purpose, and he-” 

She clapped her handkerchief to her mouth; but 
the rising tears were stopped by the clicking of the 
front gate; she darted to the porch railing. 

“Who’s that coming in here^? Oh, that coloured 
minister begging for the African M. E. Church; 
well, he can just go away again, then, and I told 





159 


The Neighbours 

him so the last time he came. I never knew any¬ 
thing like it! Give, give, give! They must think 
a body’s made of money. For pilfs sake! If there 
don’t go Carrie Marshall and Mrs. Carpenter to¬ 
gether—last thing I heard they weren’t speaking 
when they met. Mrs. Carpenter bought some of 
Mrs. Marshall’s piccalilli at the Lawn Fete, and it 
didn’t keep, and Mrs. Carpenter told every one, 
and it got around to Mrs. Marshall—go home! 
Vernon! Yoo-hoo! Vernon Wooster! Call your 
dog out of my yard! He’s digging up the salvia! 
Go home, sir! That’s that awful little Wooster 
boy and his nasty old dog—all that nice salvia 
Frank Just put in this morning!” 

She darted into the house, slamming the screen 
door behind her, and Marigold heard her burst 
out onto the downstairs porch, and break into lamen¬ 
tations over the ruined salvia. 

Marigold lay, heavy with depression, listening 
to the familiar sounds that floated up to her. Mrs. 
Tuttle’s man, next door, was cutting the grass, 
pausing now and then to shout over the hedge to 
Frank; across the street the little Rumford girl 
was practising, up and down the scale, striking 
the same wrong note each time; Mrs. Palmer, on 
the other side, was playing “I Hear You Calling 
Me” on the gramophone; and the man who sharp¬ 
ened scissors drew near and passed, ringing his 
plaintive bell. A bee blundered in, droning over 




160 A Pocketful of Poses 

her head. In the distance there was a mutter of 
thunder. 

She thought: “Is this life? These little unimpor¬ 
tant things? Can they be reality? Are they worth 
living for? If only I could connect them—see 
that they were part of God—so that things would 
seem worth while.” The thunder was real; in her 
heart she could see the heavy blue-black clouds 
rolling over the mountains, darkening the face of 
the water. The bee was real; bee-hives, set in a row 
near blue and yellow columbine; amber honey for 
the children’s supper; golden bees woven in royal 
robes. 

But cock-sure little Blossom Rumford, and her 
stumbling scales—Blossom, whose upper lip seemed 
always arched above a dribbling ice-cream cone; 
who teased her father to take her to the movies every 
night, and had “a case on Wallace Reid”—how was 
she part of one great design? And Mrs. Palmer, 
fretful and faded, afraid that people would forget 
that she had married beneath her. Her husband 
was real; knowing that he was slowly dying of 
some obscure disease, but going to work every day, 
and telling his dull little jokes, and on Saturdays 
bringing home half a pound of assorted chocolates, 
just as if nothing terrible were happening. He 
never spoke of his trouble, but sometimes there was 
a frightened look in his mild elderly eyes. He was 
real; more real than the thunder, or the mountains 



161 


The Neighbours 

and the rivers it rolled above; more real than the 
droning bee, more real than meadows full of honey- 
hlled flowers. God showed Himself in Mr. Palmer, 
if one had eyes to see. 

“After all,” Marigold thought, “what have I 
been that’s so wonderful, myself?” In a new mood 
of self-depreciation she looked back along her life. 
She seemed to see herself, a little figure growing 
smaller and smaller, pausing for a moment with 
Don under moonlit boughs of apple-blossom: draw¬ 
ing autumn leaves with coloured chalks for the chil¬ 
dren in the school-room: then a child herself, in a 
sunny garden: last of all, tinily bright at the end 
of the vista, her first real memory of herself, sitting 
on her mother’s bed under the great white tent of 
the mosquito-bar, playing with a silver lamb en¬ 
closed in a ball of glass. 

The lamb in the ball of glass seemed to her a 
symbol of herself, of her whole life. No one had 
ever really touched her, she had never cared for 
any one as much as she cared for herself. Love 
and Death had come near her, but she had not really 
felt them, enclosed in self as the lamb was enclosed 
in glass. From the heart of her glass ball she looked 
out at the world, but nothing could touch her until 
the glass was shattered. 

She spoke of her depression to George, when, a 
few days later, he came to see how she was getting 


on. 


162 A Pocketful of Poses 

'‘Oh, what a battered old cage life is!” she said. 
‘'And yet the thought of being let out gives me the 
shivers, too. I get my seed and my water, and 
quite often a lump of sugar to peck at. I suppose 
I should be contented.” 

“You’re bored to death, that’s your trouble. 
Brace up and do something, can’t you?” 

“What? The idea of just doing any old thing, 
in order to fill up time, bores me to tears, and what 
is there real for me to do?” 

“How about gardening? Don’t you like that?” 

“Theoretically, I do. I like to picture myself in 
a chintz pinafore and a shady hat, watering pinks 
and pansies—but. Dr. Bellamy, look! Look at our 
garden here! After I’d dug up six dandelion plants 
and watered the porch begonias, what would there 
be to do? Frank would die if I tried to help him 
in the kitchen garden, and there isn’t any room 
for any other flowers except that awful salvia. Mrs. 
Boynton likes things as they are. She doesn’t want 
me planting vines and things, she says they bring 
mosquitoes—and it’s her house.” 

“How about writing? Ever try that?” 

“I don’t want to; it’s one of the few illusions 
left me, that I have it in me to write wonderfully. 
I can keep it just exactly as long as I don’t write 
a word, and I wouldn’t lose that heavenly feeling 
for anything. Think of all the words in my brain 
—in your brain—like bees in a hive—gold and sil- 


163 


The Neighbours 

ver words, and coloured words, fire words and ice 
words, and crystal words, and funny words and 
heart-broken words—I couldn’t bear putting them 
on paper, and seeing those winged bright things turn 

dull and dry and stiff. Words-” 

“ ‘Ah, you should see ’em come round me of a 
Saturday night,’ ” George murmured. 

^Whatr 

“I beg your pardon; what you were saying made 
me think of Humpty-Dumpty on words—don’t you 
remember ? ‘When I make a word do a lot of work 
like that,’ said Humpty-Dumpty, ‘I always pay it 
extra.’ And the part about crowding round of a 
Saturday night, ‘for to get their wages, you know.’ ” 
Marigold gave a reluctant half-laugh: “You 
never will let me be highfalutin! Well, I’ll tell you 
another reason why I couldn’t write; I couldn’t in 
a million years think of a plot. And then if I ever 
did get a plot, I couldn’t do conversations. I 
couldn’t invent clever ones, and I wouldn’t have the 
nerve to make people talk the way they really do. 
Just imagine if there was one of those what-do-you- 
call-its recording every word you spoke all day long, 
without your knowing it, and then at the end of the 
.day it was all poured back into your ears; could you 
bear it? Even unusual people like you and me? 
I should never open my mouth again, I know. I 
could do descriptions, perhaps, except that I never 
can resist going on a perfect tear of adjectives— 





164 


A Pocketful of Poses 

no, we haven’t found my vocation yet. Every one 
thinks he can write. ‘You could write’, and ‘You 
have keen insight into character’, are the two safe 
things to say to everybody when you’re telling for¬ 
tunes, you know. But Dr. Bellamy!” 

“Yes?” 

“Isn’t there more to life than I can see? No 
matter what happens to me, I always feel as if I 
hadn’t really begun living yet, that just a little 
further along there’s something wonderful —of 
course, I suppose every one feels that way. I try 
and I try, but I never reach it—and yet I feel that 
it’s there, ahead of me. Do you know what I’m 
trying to say?” 

“I know; it’s like a carrot hung in front of a 
donkey to keep it trotting along.” 

“And don’t we ever reach our carrot, any more 
than the donkey does? Is it just a trick to keep us 
trotting?” 

“I don’t know,” said George honestly. “If I 
were you I’d keep on trotting a little while longer, 
and see if you don’t find out. You haven’t been 
at it for any great length of time. How old are 
you, anyway?” 

“Twenty-two,” said Marigold, and waited, a 
shade complacently, for ejaculations of surprise. 
She was accustomed to people saying: “Why, I 
never would have dreamed it! You look just like 


The Neighbours 165 

a little girl!” or, “I don’t believe you’re a day over 
seventeen!” 

But George said nothing, and, after a moment, 
she went on, feeling rather flat: 

‘‘So you see—! I do feel low in my mind some¬ 
times, Dr. Bellamy. What are we here for, and 
where are we going*? 

‘The stars are setting, and the Caravan 
Starts towards the Dawn of Nothing—’ ” 

She quoted the lines with a little nervous laugh, 
intended to show him that she was not taking her¬ 
self too seriously. She hoped they would impress 
him; she was rather pleased with herself for re¬ 
membering them, at the same time that she was 
really touched by their tragic beauty. 

“You sound,” said George, “like the Old Man of 
Cape Horn, 

‘Who wished he had never been born; 

So he sat on a Chair till he died of despair—* 

Buck up, child! I promise you one thing—any one 
who looks like you is going to have plenty of inci¬ 
dent coming to them in their life.” 



CHAPTER XII 


% 


PROPOSAL 

M rs. BOYNTON felt that Dr. Bellamy was 

coming entirely too often to see Marigold: 

she grew alarmed at the thought of what his bill 

would be. “Of course, someone has to pay for his 

auto and his riding-horse and all,’' she said. “But 

I don’t see how he can have the face to keep on 

coming here^ with Marigold really perfectly well.” 

But when she found that there were to be no more 

bills, and that the visits were friendly ones, she 

was not much better pleased. 

Marigold began to be happy again that summer. 

George was a splendid friend. He lent her books 

that really interested her; he took her for long drives 

and walks through lovely unfamiliar country. One 

day he took her with him to the woods: he was going 

to fish, and she could sit by the brook and read. 

“Of course it’s all right said Mrs. Boynton, 

dubiously, over the telephone to Mrs. Marshall after 

they had gone: “He’s years and years older than 

she is, and her physician, too, and he said a day out 

of doors would do her good, and I know they don’t 

166 


Proposal 167 

think of each other as anything in the world but 
just very, very good friends, but still, it does seem 
a little queer that she’d take any pleasure in going 
round with any man, with Donald only dead a 
year -” 

But Marigold was taking a great deal of pleasure: 
the green light falling through the leaves on to the 
deep soft moss, the vivid whorls of the May-apple 
leaves, the great lacy fern fronds dipping into the 
spray of the slipping brook, comforted and soothed 
her. “Oh, this does make me happy!” she said to 
George. “Greenness—coolness—peace—it does 
bless one, doesn’t it? Don’t bother about me, I’m 
blissful; go and fish.” 

“You must be extremely quiet.” 

“Oh, I’m much stronger now.” 

“I don’t mean that. I mean so that you won’t 
frighten the fish.” 

She laughed. “I’ll try to be quiet. Dr. Bellamy.” 

“You couldn’t call me by my first name, could 
you?” 

“I don’t know—I could try that, too. But I’ll 
probably feel too embarrassed to call you anything 
but ^you’, ever again. Dr. Bellamy—oh, I didn’t 
mean to say that-!” 

“Try again,” advised George. “ 'Try again: 
draw a long breath, and shut your eyes,’ said the 
White Queen. I can call you Marigold with the 
greatest ease.” 







168 


A Pocketful of Poses 

He stretched himself on the moss beside her, 
absently turning the leaves of the book of poems 
that she had brought with an eye to impressing 
him. He seemed to have forgotten his fishing. 

“When I was little I used to fish with Father,” 
Marigold said. “We’d take bits of Albert biscuit, 
and tie them to strings, but never any hooks, for 
fear of hurting the fish; I can’t tell you how excit¬ 
ing it was! I always thought, suppose a fish should 
eat our biscuit!” 

“We used to fish from the window of my room 
at college,” said George. “We fished for horses, 
with apples and lumps of sugar for bait.” 

“Did you ever catch one*?” 

“We caught a policeman once. Comfortable, 
Marigold?” 

“Yes, thank you. Dr. Bellamy.” 

“Who?” 

“Yes, thank you, you. It’s a heavenly place, isn’t 
it? A place to dream in, if you were one of those 
people who make a point of having particular places 
to dream in.” 

“I’ve often wondered about those people: how 
do they go about it, exactly? Do they go to their 
place and sit down and say: ‘Now I’ll dream until 
three-thirty?’ Let’s dream till six, and then have 
dinner?” 

“I don’t know. I don’t go in for dreams.” 

“You don’t, don’t you? You’re made of them.” 


Proposal 169 

“Only the bad kind, the kind little Willies have 
after theyVe eaten green apples.” 

“Marigold, you’re showing off.” 

“Yes, I know I am,” she admitted, remembering 
that she was now Truthful Marigold. “Only Fm 
scared to death for fear you’ll think Fm whimsical. 
Whimsical! Pfui! Fll tell you what I think about 
and wish for, when I dream until three-thirty—a 
little country place with a house like a cuckoo clock, 
and the scent of pine-trees, and cold-frames full of 
violets—you know the way the moisture clings to 
the under side of the cold-frame glass*? And 
basket chairs on the lawn, where Fd have my tea. 
I always think of it as being tea-time at my 
house-” 

“Very greedy of you. What else?” 

“Then just one or two friends. Everything 
peaceful and fragrant and cool—no more fuss and 
emotion-” 

He looked with love at her lovely wistful face, 
hearing all his happy childhood in her words. He 
wanted terribly to say: “Let me give you all you 
want—let me take care of you.” But the calm 
friendship that looked out of her eyes, clear and 
untroubled as a child’s, kept him from speaking. 

Marigold, for her part, grew more and more 
anxious to be everything he thought her. She soon 
found that self-pity bored him, even if one had 
real troubles to pity one’s self for: so she gave up 





170 


A Pocketful of Poses 

any idea of attracting him through pathos, and tried 
for cheerfulness and courage. Pallor, fragility, 
shadowed eyes—they were not the things that 
charmed him. She felt that he liked her better, 
when, pink-cheeked and clear-eyed, she swung along 
untired by his side; and with the new happy com¬ 
panionship and interest, a new strength came to 
her. She had rather gone in for having no appetite, 
until one day George announced that he liked good 
hearty eaters, and after that she became a good 
hearty eater, and enjoyed it. Health was beautiful 
to him., and she wanted to be beautiful in his eyes. 

To him she was an open window, letting in day¬ 
light and air; to him she shone like the sun, making 
his whole life bright. 

One autumn day they walked together under a 
grey sky. Apple-trees hung heavy with fruit, and 
prettily-designed seed-pods lifted themselves, 
straight and strong, from among the straw-coloured 
ferns by the road-side. The pockets of Marigold’s 
corduroy coat, and of George’s knickerbockers, 
bulged with stolen apples, and presently they turned 
into the woods to rest and refresh themselves. 

“It’s grand to get out-of-doors, and have a little 
sensible conversation,” Marigold remarked, her 
mouth full of apple. “Ever since the Doutys’s 
little girl was born, I haven’t heard a ihmg but 
babies. Poor Mrs. Boynton! I do feel terribly 
sorry for her, and yet what can I do? She looks 



Proposal 171 

so sad all the time, and she will keep on talking 
about little feet running about the house-’’ 

“Better than having her talk about little noses 
running about the house,” said George, in vulgar 
strain. 

“George—I can’t imagine why Dorothy Douty 
thinks you’re unsympathetic. You’re the sym- 
patheticest person I’ve ever known. Why does she, 
do you supposeYou haven’t another apple about 
you, have you^” 

“Here you are. How many have you had. Mari¬ 
goldNot that I want to criticize, but really, 
child! It does seem incredible that she shouldn’t 
like me, I admit. I suppose one reason is that I 
didn’t go into fits over her sufferings when she was 
having her children: but they were perfectly normal 
births. I might as well burst into tears over the 
trees these came from because they’d had apples. 
You’d think women would have gotten used to the 
idea of having children by this time, and be natural 
about it, but not they! I admit they have a rotten 
time, but it isn’t anything to what lots of people 
have to stand.” 

“What, for instance?” 

“Cancer—blindness. It’s fine to have a baby.” 
He added: “But after all, what’s so all-fired holy 
and solemn about it, when you consider cats and 
dogs—and water-spiders?” 

He lit a cigarette. “Want one? Here, light 




172 A Pocketful of Poses 

it from mine. I’ll tell you something else that 
strikes me as the most utter twaddle, Marigold. The 
way women in books—real ones may do it, too. I 
don’t know—write letters to their children before 
they’re born: you know the type: ‘My Dear Little 
Baby Whom I May Never See,’ and then an orgy 
of egotism.” 

“I know,” said Marigold, who up to that mo¬ 
ment had planned to write just such a letter in case 
she was ever in an appropriate condition; who had, 
indeed, at the age of fifteen, written a letter “To 
My First Little Precious Baby in Case I Should 
Dye”, that had for months moved her to tears every 
time she re-read it. “I know, and then the hus¬ 
band always finds it, and reads it with tear-dimmed 
eyes, and thinks: ‘Oh, my! Ain’t she noble, and 
ain’t I low!’ What time is it, George? Ought we 
to be starting home?” 

“Not yet. Marigold-” 

“What?” 

“You don’t look very happy to me.” 

“Probably those apples.” 

“No—what’s the matter? Tell me, can’t you?” 

“Oh, George, nothing! Just the same old thing. 
Only it’s been a little worse lately, for some reason. 
Mrs. Boynton’s been feeling badly; the Douty baby, 
I think. Her son was engaged to Dorothy Douty 
once, you know, and I suppose she can’t help feeling 
it might have been his baby. And then Don’s 




Proposal 173 

birthday made her—oh, it’s nothing. I’m all 
right.” She dashed away her tears. “Really we 
must go.” 

“Marigold—my darling-!” 

“George!” 

“I can’t help it. You’re like a little bird that’s 
fallen out of the nest before it can fly. Let me 
take care of you!” He lifted her hands to his lips. 
“I didn’t mean to tell you yet, but I can’t help it—• 
I love you—I love you terribly-” 

“Oh, George! Oh, dear George, I’m so sorry! 
I never thought—I knew you liked me, but, oh, not 
this! Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry!” 

“You couldn’t love me, darling?” 

She shook her head. “Not that way. I do love 
you with all my heart as a friend—I look up to you, 
and respect you, and I’d rather be with you than 
any one else in the world—but that’s different, isn’t 
it?” 

“Yes, that’s different,” he agreed. “I love and 
worship you with all my heart and soul and mind 
and body. I’d give my life to make you happy. 
Don’t say no yet—wait a little while. Let me try 
to teach you.” 

“No, George, no, it wouldn’t be any use. I did 
so much feeling altogether—when I was engaged, 
and then when Don died, and it was all my fault, 
and Granny died, and then when I was so unhappy 
here—I’m all burnt out. I’ll never really feel any- 







174 A Pocketful of Poses 

thing again. I don’t want to feel again—I’m too 
tired.” 

“Oh, child, you’re talking rot.” 

“No, George, I know —a woman knows.” 

“But a baby doesn’t. You’re only a baby. You 
haven’t begun to live yet. Oh, Marigold, I want 
you so.” 

She sat in silence, while he brushed her tingling 
finger-tips back and forth against his cheek, and 
then let them rest on his lips. Finally she said: 

“I’d give you the other kind of love if I could, 
George.” 

“I know you would, dear.” 

“I do care about you more than any one else in 
the world. I love to be with you, you make me 
feel so safe and happy—and our tastes are mutual, 
aren’t they? I feel as if we think together so in 
harmony that when we talk it’s as if each lifts the 
other up—high up—I can’t imagine life without 
you.” 

“Marigold, you wouldn’t take a chance? You 
wouldn’t marry me, feeling the way you do? I’d 
be good to you, darling—I’d try hard to be patient 
and gentle-” 

“You mean you’d be contented with what I would 
give you—with my just loving you my way?” 

“I mean I want you so terribly that I’d worship 
you and thank God for you no matter how you 





Proposal 175 

came to me. Perhaps after awhile you’d 
change-” 

“No, no! I couldn’t marry you if you were 
hoping that, George! You’re the only person in the 
world I’ve never pretended to, and I can’t pretend 
to you that there’s any chance of my changing.” 

“All right, then, you won’t change. But marry 
me, and I’ll bless and adore you all my life for just 
giving me the chance to take care of you. Only 
come to me, darling. We’ll have wonderful times 
together. We’ll go to queer places, and meet queer 
people. When we’re married, I’ll take you to a 
lonely island where every garden has a carved and 
painted woman, a figure-head from some old ship, 
straining towards the sea—and where little shaggy 
ponies pull great cart-loads of calla-lilies through 
lanes full of the sound of waves—or we’ll go to 
Japan. You’d love the iris growing out of the 
roofs of the houses, and the children playing battle¬ 
dore and shuttle-cock on the temple steps, with their 
cheeks like pink plush. We won’t ever be rich. I’m 
afraid-” 

“I know why not. I know how you have given 
everything to the hospital, and to the poor sick 
country people.” 

“I don’t do much. The patients are tiresome as 
the devil, most of them—but some of them are poor 
dumb creatures with bewildered eyes, all devotion. 
One old man came to the hospital last night. His 






176 


A Pocketful of Poses 

son was there a couple of months before he died, 
and the old fellow walked thirty miles to bring me a 
silver dollar and a basket of winter apples, to show 
his gratitude for what we did for Edward—Mari¬ 
gold, what can I do but give them what I have? 
But we’ll always have enough.” 

“I don’t care a scrap about being rich.” 

“I don’t believe you do. I’ll try to make you 
happy. I’ll try not to bother you too much. Won’t 
you marry me, my blessed?” 

“You’d rather have what I can give than all some 
other woman’s love?” 

“Oh, damn some other woman’s love! It’s you I 
want—you!” 

“George—you know what you said—about cats 
and dogs and water spiders ? About having babies ? 
Well—couldn’t the kind of love that makes your 
heart thump and makes you sort of shiver—you 
know what I mean?” 

“Perfectly.” 

“Couldn’t that be unimportant, and the heart 
and mind kind that water-spiders haven't —couldn’t 
that be the important kind ? Because I have oceans 
of that for you.” 

“Oh, Marigold, you idiot! Water-spiders! 
Good God! Stop talking, darling. Stop looking 
inside of your little head. Just say this: say, 
‘George, I’ll marry you.’ ” 

She thought of escaping from the deadening 


Proposal 177 

atmosphere of Mrs. Boynton’s house, from the strain 
of pretense, and the constant demands for sympathy. 
She thought of the relief of being with some one who 
thought as she did, who always understood. He was 
her best friend: he would never fail her. She 
thought, catching her breath, of life without him, 
and said: 

‘‘George, I—I will, if you want me to.” 

His head went down into her lap, one hand was 
seeking hers. She heard him whisper: 

“Oh, my darling, you’ll never know how much 
I love you!” 

“I’ll try hard to be a good wife.” 

“Precious child, you can’t think how absurd that 
sounds, when I look at you. It’s like hearing a little 
blue butterfly, or a dew-drop, or a harebell, say it’ll 
try to mend the clothes and make the puddings.” 

She was charmed by the picture of herself, pure 
and ethereal. “Oh, what lovely things to call me!” 
she cried: “And you say them just as easily as you’d 
say: ‘Marigold, you have a smut on your nose.’ No 
extra expression or anything! I could have thought 
things like that, but when it came to saying them, 
I’d have been so self-conscious I’d have had to say 
them through my nose or something, just to show I 
wasn’t really impressed with myself for thinking of 
them. Is that the way you really feel, George*?” 

“I can’t tell you what I feel. We’re both mad. 
J’m mad to let you marry me this way, and you’re 


178 A Pocketful of Poses 

mad to trust me. It would take courage enough, 
God knows, if you loved me, but to come to me feel¬ 
ing as you do—oh, my little soul, it makes me wor¬ 
ship you and pity you. I wish for your sake I could 
take care of you and keep you happy without making 
you marry me.” 

“If you did, Mrs. Marshall wouldn’t call on us!” 

“No, she wouldn’t, so you’ll have to marry me. 
But you’ll be as free as air. If you get sick of it 
you can go whenever you want to, only don’t decide 
too quickly. Marigold, will you*? Because it’s in¬ 
evitable that soon after you’re married you’ll feel 
that you’ve made a terrible mistake, and that I don’t 
understand you. When things bother you, come to 
me and we’ll talk them over together, won’t we?” 

“Just as we always do.” 

“Yes, just as we always do. Now come along, 
I must be getting you home.” He pulled her to her 
feet, and brushed the dead leaves from her skirt 
with shaking hands, torn between his passionate 
love for her and his body’s stern reserve. When he 
kissed her, just before they came out on to the road, 
her lips were as sweet, as cool, as impersonal, as 
flowers. 

She was silent as they walked along together: in 
spite of herself, she was thrilled and a little 
frightened by this new George, when she thought of 
what she had promised. Life would be peacefully 
happy, spent with him, as soon as she grew accus- 



Proposal 179 

tomed to the idea; but for the moment it caused her 
heart, that heart that she so firmly believed could 
never feel again, to pound and leap in her breast. 
She tried talking a little about the things they passed 
—yellow leaves against the heavy sky, brightening 
berries, a chestnut tree thick with burrs—but George 
answered at random, or not at all, so she gave her¬ 
self up to thinking of herself, and her altered life; 
seeing herself, like a white flower at twilight, pure 
and remote, set apart to be worshipped and cher¬ 
ished. She enjoyed her thoughts, but was glad that 
George could not share them with her. 

“Fm coming in now to tell Mrs. Boynton,” he 
said, as they drew near the house. 

“Fd rather do it myself—really, Fd much rather, 
thank you, George,” she answered hastily. ‘1 don’t 
suppose she’ll care much for the idea at first, but 
on the other hand, I should think she’d be awfully 
glad to be rid of me.” 

‘‘Then Fll come to-night and talk to her.” 

“No, please not yet. Ylease —it would be easier 
for me if you didn’t.” 

“I don’t like your doing it all by yourself,” he 
said doubtfully. 

“Just give her a little time. It will be such a 
surprise to her, you know—it is to me—Fm breath¬ 
less-” 

“Marry me soon. Loving you makes life seem 
terribly short. Say you will, soon, Marigold.” 






180 


A Pocketful of Poses 


‘1 will.” 

“Darling, you’re not afraid?” 

“Of you? I couldn’t be!” 

“God knows I wish you could. I wish anything 
would make your little heart beat faster for me.” 

They paused at Mrs. Boynton’s gate, and Mari¬ 
gold felt an involuntary flash of pleasure as she 
saw how small and white her hand looked as it lay 
in his. Frank was gazing at them with mild interest, 
leaning on his rake, so their parting was outwardly 
calm. But as she walked up the path between the 
rusty pink hydrangeas. Marigold felt quite faint as 
she thought of telling Mrs. Boynton. 


CHAPTER XIII 


CONSEQUENCES 

M rs. TRIMLETT CANDEE was giving a 
bridge party that afternoon, and Mrs. Boyn¬ 
ton wore her new hat, which was most suitable to 
the season, being trimmed with grapes and purple 
velvet dahlias. She put it on first, and then went 
to the top of the stairs and called to Marigold to 
come and hook up her dress for her. 

Sieka, the maid, who was trying to make out a 
post-card that had come for her mistress in the after¬ 
noon mail, called up from the hall that Miss Mari¬ 
gold had gone out for a walk with Dr. Bellamy. 

“For pity’s sake, again? Well, then, you’ll have 
to do me up—the flap crosses over and hooks here— 

no, no, Sieka, look, here -” 

She stood before her mirror, while Sieka’s moist 
red hands pulled hooks and eyes together. 

“You’re getting fat, yust the same!” the maid 
said, after a hard tug, while Mrs. Boynton held her 
breath, frowning anxiously. 

“Mercy, Sieka!” said Mrs. Boynton, annoyed. 
“I only wish I was! I guess this dress got shrunk at 
the cleaner’s—you’re sure you got the right hook in 

i8i 





182 A Pocketful of Poses 

the right eye^’’ She craned over her shoulder. 
“Now if any one phones, tell them Idl be home 
around six.” She pulled on her long white gloves 
with nervous tugs, and held her hands to her nose. 
“These certainly do smell of gasolene,” she mur¬ 
mured: “Well, may be the fresh air-” 

“Patticoat shows,” observed Sieka dispassionately. 

“Oh, my gracious! How about it now?” 

“Yust a leetle.” 

“Now? Now? Well, now is it all right? My 
goodness, it’s time I was half way there!” She 
dashed downstairs, flung open the kitchen door, 
called to the cook: “Well, Ingrid, I’m going now!” 
and darted into the motor. 

She was in quite a fever of pleasant anticipation. 
She kept putting up one hand to make sure the new 
hat was secure, while she flapped the other gently, 
like a polite baby saying “Bye-bye”, in order to get 
rid of the smell of gasolene. Her nose twitched a 
little, like a rabbit’s, and she gave Frank advice 
about his driving in a constant and unheeded stream. 

Mrs. Candee entertained very handsomely, her 
friends all said. This afternoon’s party was one of 
her smaller affairs, but none the less handsome. Her 
guests sat in the sun-parlour, like so many cucum¬ 
bers in a hot-bed, while the steam-pipes hissed and 
gurgled. 

“Isn’t this the most artistic home?” asked Mrs. 



Consequences 183 

Poole, as she dealt the cards. “I always say this 
sun-parlour is as good as a trip abroad, it looks so 
foreign. That darling fountain-!” She indi¬ 

cated, with rapture an elaborate affair with several 
minute sprays of water rising from a central cluster 
of red and green electric lights that resembled a 
salad of tomatoes and lettuce. There were other 
quaint touches here and there about the porch; a 
careless cluster of extremely new garden-tools, 
painted blue and old rose; an ash-tray held by a 
butler cut out of wood and coloured; a china blue¬ 
bird in a rose-wreathed cage. The trellises on either 
side of the door were covered with trails of imita¬ 
tion ivy. 

“Yes, it certainly is lovely,” Mrs. Boynton 
agreed. She bit into a chocolate, and made a hur¬ 
ried grab at her mouth as its contents proved to be 
liquid. “Mercy! What a thing to have at a card 
party. Now my fingers are all sticky!” 

“I guess you made a mistake, Mrs. Poole, I’m one 
card short,” said Mrs. Warner. 

“Well, for goodness’ sakes! I’d better pay at¬ 
tention to business and not talk so much—excuse 
me, girls! Miss Trent isn’t here this afternoon, is 
she, Mrs. BoyntonI saw her as I was coming 
over, and I thought maybe she was coming here, 
but then I didn’t know, she sort of looked as if she 
was dressed for a good long hike, and she was with 
Dr. Bellamy. I trilled at her, but I guess she was 




184 A Pocketful of Poses 

too much occupied to hear me. Now^ then, we’re 
right this time! Your bid, Mrs. Dutton.” 

'Dne heart,” said Mrs. Dutton, thickly, through 
a piece of nougat. ‘‘He’s quite attentive, isn’t he, 
Eva? Seems to me I’m always hearing about them 
being together.” 

“Mercy, no! They’re good friends, but not a 
thing in the world more. No indeed, Lily, I’m 
afraid my little girl hasn’t any heart for that sort 
of thing.” She gave a great sigh. “I wish she 
could learn to care for some one, but I know per¬ 
fectly well that she’ll never marry. It’s touching 
to see the way the little thing clings to me. She 
seems to feel as if Donald was with us still-” 

She touched her eyes rapidly with her handker¬ 
chief, and smiled brightly, while the other three 
ladies heaved admiring and sympathetic sighs. 
Mrs. Dutton gave her hand a squeeze, murmuring: 
“Eva, you’re wonderful,” and Mrs. Poole felt quite 
sacrilegious as she said respectfully: “Your bid, 
Mrs. Boynton.” 

Altogether it was a delightful afternoon, and as 
Mrs. Boynton walked home (for Frank stopped 
work at five o’clock) she felt in a glow of loving¬ 
kindness towards all the world. 

Frank had said there was going to be a storm, 
and had spent the afternoon languidly staking the 
few dahlias and the last frail roses, and by the time 
Mrs. Boynton reached her own front door the wind 



Consequences 185 

was rising and the first drops fell. There was a 
light upstairs that meant Marigold was at home; and 
Sieka, who wanted to go to the cinema, was watch¬ 
ing for her mistress. 

“Hoo-hoo! Come on down, dearie, dinner’s 
ready!” Mrs. Boynton called; and added, as they 
seated themselves: “Not that I feel like eating any 
—we were all telling Mrs. Candee nobody need 
order any dinner if they were going to one of her 
parties first! She always does things so hand¬ 
somely—almost too well, I think.” 

Her society voice and manner were still clinging 
to her. “Well, Sieka, what is Ingrid giving us to¬ 
night?” she questioned affably, although she her¬ 
self had ordered the veal cutlets and stewed toma¬ 
toes, or, rather, had accepted the cook’s ordering of 
them. “We had the most delicious ice-cream from 
The Goody Shop, coffee cream in spun sugar bas¬ 
kets, and those little cakes with coloured icing sweet- 
peas. I saw poor Mrs. Miner putting three into her 
bag, when she thought no one was looking—to take 
home to the children, I suppose, but it did seem a 
little funny. But then I suppose it will be a great 
treat for them, poor little things. It’s funny how 
Mr. Miner just can’t seem to get on. Mr. Boynton 
always used to say it was because he hadn’t any 
bump of stick-at-it-iveness. She’s still wearing that 
old maroon velvet hat. Don’t you care for your 
cutlet, dear?” 


186 A Pocketful of Poses 

Marigold, who had been sitting in a dream, think¬ 
ing of George, remembering her promise to him, 
wondering when it would be best to tell Mrs. Boyn¬ 
ton her news, roused herself with a start, and began 
to eat her stewed tomatoes. She would let her finish 
her dinner first, the way diplomatic wives always let 
their husbands dine in peace before hurling thunder¬ 
bolts at them. 

“Mrs. Candee had the handsomest dress—all ecru 
lace—really, it was beautiful! First there was a 
sort of under-dress of black satin, and then the 
lace-” 

(“ 0 ^, 7 ny darling^ yovUl never know how much I 
love youT^) 

“Through, Marigold^ All that nice cutlet going 
to waste! Tm afraid your walk didn’t give you a 
very good appetite. Mrs. Poole said she saw you 
with Dr. Bellamy—doesn’t he ever have to work^ 
Mercy, how it blows! Just as well Frank tied up 
those dahlias. Mrs. Candee had the most exquisite: 
cut glass vase full of gladiolus, I just wished you 
were there to see them. I kept thinking how you al¬ 
ways say pink gladiolus make you think of canned 
salmon—such a notion! Fll have just a speck more 
of the custard, Sieka.” 

{‘‘Marry me soon. Loving you makes life seem 
terribly short.”) 

The memory of his words gave her a sudden quick 
stab of physical pain, a sudden unexpected longing 





Consequences 187 

for his presence. They were in the parlour now. 
She must tell Mrs. Boynton that she was going to 
marry George. 

“Well, you haven’t told me anything about your 
afternoon,” Mrs. Boynton went on amiably. “Did 
you and the doctor have a pleasant walk^ I don’t 
suppose you had time to get me a library book, did 
you?” 

“Oh, Mrs. Boynton, I’m so sorry! I forgot all 
about it.” 

Mrs. Boynton smiled patiently. “Never mind, 
dear, it doesn’t matter. It’s just that you said you 
would, or I could have gone myself; I walked right 
past there. Or I could have sent Frank, just as 
easy as not—but it doesn’t make any difference-” 

“I’m so sorry.” 

“It was only that you said you would, dear. 
Well-” 

Marigold plunged desperately. 

“Mrs. Boynton, I’m ashamed. You’ve been so 
good to me. I can never, never tell you how I feel 
about it—and I’m afraid I haven’t shown very well 
how grateful I am to you. I must have been an aw¬ 
ful nuisance, heaps of times.” 

“Never mind. I’ll send Frank for it to-morrow,” 
said Mrs. Boynton, still thinking of the library 
book. “As I say, it would have been easy enough 
to stop in for it myself, if it hadn’t been for your 
saying you’d go.” 




188 


A Pocketful of Poses 

‘‘How shall I tell her?’’ Marigold asked herself. 
“How would George tell her^ He’d always do it 
in the simplest way—he’d say, ‘Marigold and I are 
going to be married.’” She suddenly heard her 
own voice say: “Mrs. Boynton, George Bellamy has 
asked me to marry him.” 

“Asked you to marry him?” She looked at Mari¬ 
gold with her mouth dropping open. “Well, he 
must be crazy. What did you say to him?” 

“I told him I would.” 

“You told him you would?'"'" 

“Dear Mrs. Boynton, don’t think I’m ungrateful, 
don’t think I’ve forgotten everything you’ve 
done-” 

Mrs. Boynton began to cry. She stood with her 
hands hanging down at her sides, not moving until 
Marigold came close to her. Then she shrank away 
from her, wailing: 

“Donald! Donald! Donald!” 

“Mrs. Boynton —please -” 

“Donald, my darling! Oh, if I could only come 
to you! All alone, all alone! If I could die!” 
Suddenly she turned on Marigold. “You can’t 
marry that man! You can’t! You’re Donald’s! He 
gave you everything he had—he gave you all his 
love, and he gave you his life. If he’d never known 
you, he’d be alive to-day—my boy, my beautiful, 
laughing boy, turned into a broken, bleeding heap 





Consequences 189 

because of you—and you won’t even give him 
memory-” 

She began to wail and sob, beating the air with 
her hands, and turning her head away from the 
glass of water that Marigold brought. 

“Don’t pretend you’re sorry for me, when you’ve 
been laughing behind my back at how you were 
fooling me, and letting that man make love to you!” 

“Mrs. Boynton, dear Mrs. Boynton, please listen 
to me!” 

Mrs. Boynton, her eyes tight shut, collapsed to 
the floor, and lay there moaning, “Donny, Donny!” 
Suddenly she sat up. “Marigold, he was all I had. 
He loved me until he met you, but after that there 
wasn’t any one else in the world. You took his 
love away from me, and you took his life away from 
me. I haven’t any one left but you. I need you so! 
I’m not young any more; nobody cares about me. 
If you leave me. I’ll die. All alone, all alone-!” 

She was crying with a child’s abandon, the tears 
rolling down her swollen face and into the corners 
of her mouth. Marigold looked at her, sick with 
pity. What she said was true. Marigold had taken 
from her all that was most dear. How could she 
leave her now, this frightened old child who clung 
to her with trembling hands? Faint in her heart 
she heard what George had said: 

“OA, my darling^ you'll never know how much I 
love you I” 




190 A Pocketful of Poses 

“Marigold, come to my room,’’ Mrs. Boynton was 
saying through her sobs. “Come, I want to show 
you something.” She stumbled up the stairs, not 
bothering to lift her skirt, although she wore her 
best dress. “Sit here by the lamp.” She unlocked 
a bureau drawer, and with shaking hands lifted out 
its contents. “See this little curl, when he was a 
baby—isn’t it soft? And his little cap—look how 
tiny! You could hardly believe he’d grow into such 
a tall man. And here’s his reader. Marigold—his 
papa and I didn’t know he could read a word yet, 
and one day he brought his reader home and read 
this to us—this page that begins. This is a happy 
band of boys’! I can see his dear little face just 
shining^ he always loved to give us a surprise. And 
this wreath of roses he wore to be Cupid once—he 
just looked like a little angel. Marigold, he was 
such a dear little boy!” She brought out photo¬ 
graphs, letters, the picture frame he had made him¬ 
self for her birthday, valentines that he had sent 
her. 

“I had all that—that love and devotion—that 
companionship—and now I have nothing,” she said. 

Marigold looked down at a picture that she held 
—Don when he was nine or ten, with his dog. Both 
gone now, where? How sad, to have been so alive, 
so full of plans, of hope, of fun, only to come to a 
little quiet dust. 




Consequences 191 

“And look, look!” Mrs. Boynton said eagerly: “I 
never showed you these, that I found after Donny 
died, because I was jealous of you. They were in 
his room, with your letters.” She gave Marigold a 
box full of little things. There were snapshots— 
here was one that Don had taken of her when they 
were first engaged. What work it had been to get 
Coco up on the sun-dial—she could see his little 
black legs spraddling out yet—and how they had 
laughed together! Here was a handkerchief with 
her initials; an envelope containing dead crumbled 
flowers and a slip of paper on which was written, 
“Marigold gave me these when we said good-by 
yesterday”; one of the invitations to their wedding. 
She opened a folded paper from a game of Conse¬ 
quences that they had played that first evening at 
Miss Hopper’s, and read through tears the silly 
words in the different handwritings. 

“Shy 

Marigold 

Met noble 

Mr. Boynton 

At the bottom of the sea 

He said ‘Three cheers for the red, white, and blue!’ 
She said ‘Don’t get fresh’ 

He gave her a tender glance 
She fried it in lard 


192 A Pocketful of Poses 

The consequences were that they went up in a 

balloon 

And the World said ‘I told you so.’ ” 

He had kept ever since that first evening. She 
saw again his face, brilliant with laughter, as Miss 
Hopper read it aloud. A tear splashed down on the 
paper, and lay there, shining like a star. 

“I’ll stay with you, if you want me,” she said to 
Mrs. Boynton. Her heart felt heavy with hopeless¬ 
ness. She had loved Donald so intensely once, and 
now he was nothing to her but a pitiful memory, to 
be thought of tenderly, gently. Surely that meant 
that this strange new longing to be with George that 
surged through her would in its turn become only a 
memory. This new wave of feeling that broke over 
her, drenching her through and through, would in its 
appointed time draw back, ebbing as those other 
waves had ebbed. Each one must die, each one 
must be forgotten. What did it matter how one 
felt for a little whiled 

She helped Mrs. Boynton to put away Don’s 
things, heated milk for her while she undressed, and 
kissed her good-night, kind and preoccupied, like a 
mother who hides her trouble from her child. She 
sat beside her until she fell asleep, then she tip-toed 
from the room and down the stairs, and opened the 
front door. She must go to George and tell him that 
she could not marry him. 


CHAPTER XIV 


STORMY NIGHT 

M arigold let herself out of the front door 
and hurried down the path, along which 
broken balls of hydrangea flowers were being rolled 
by the wind. The rain beat against her and 
drenched her, as she fought her way along the black 
mile that led to George Bellamy’s house. Ordi¬ 
narily she would have been terrified at being out 
by herself on the lonely country road, but now she 
had only one thought in her mind—to reach George, 
and tell him she could not marry him. She did not 
think of telephoning to him, or writing. Her need 
of his actual presence was too strong for that. 

His servant had gone to bed when the bell rang, 
and George opened the door himself. 

“Marigold! What’s the matter?” 

“George!” she cried, half fainting. “I had to 
come-” 

He made her sit by the fire, and piled on wood 

imtil the blaze roared up the chimney. He pulled 

off her wet shoes, that came off with a sucking 

sound, and brought brandy for her to drink. 

“George, I can’t marry you—I’ve promised Mrs. 

193 



194 A Pocketful of Poses 

Boynton I won’t. I had to come and tell you,” she 
sobbed through chattering teeth. 

“Wait a minute,” he answered in a preoccupied 
voice. “You can’t keep those wet things on. I’ll 
find you something.” 

“But, George-” she began; and paused, a lit¬ 

tle taken aback at his seeming so unshaken by the 
blow. 

She changed, in front of a bedroom fire, into a 
great padded coat that George had brought from 
India—indigo velvet striped with magenta and 
lemon and rose—and put on her cold bare feet large 
slippers of palest blue, fresh from their Christmas 
swathing of tissue paper, and knitted by those 
elderly sisters, Mattie and Bessie Hall, more gener¬ 
ally known as Battie and Messie. George’s heart was 
heavy with love for her as she came and stood in the 
doorway like a little lost child, her face white above 
the vivid colours of the velvet coat, her hair still wet 
and dark with rain. He could have shouted and 
cried because she had come to him through the storm, 
but her trembling mouth and the dark stains under 
her eyes warned him to be as unemotional as possible. 

“Now fire ahead, darling, and tell me what’s the 
matter.” 

She told him, her breath catching in a sob now 
and then, and he listened, frowning. 

“So you see I can^t^ George. I thought I could, 
but I can’t. I’d never forgive myself as long as I 




Stormy Night 195 

lived, since Fve seen how she’d feel. And I had to 
come and tell you-” 

She paused: George seemed to be taking every¬ 
thing so quietly. 

“You do see that I can’t marry you and leave her, 
don’t you?” 

“You know what I think about it, but you can’t 
if it’s going to make you unhappy, and you certainly 
can’t marry me and not leave her. Cheer up! You 
don’t love me, so there isn’t that to worry about; 
and nothing can interfere with my loving you, so 
there we are. You’re to do exactly as you please. 
If you really want to stay with Mrs. Boynton, you’re 
to stay with her.” 

“And we’ll still be friends? George, where’s my 
handkerchief?” 

“Stop crying! Stop crying, you’ll spot my Jodh¬ 
pur coat. Here, use my handkerchief and mop 
yourself up. I’m going to make some cocoa for you. 
You can come out in the kitchen with me and sit by 
the stove unless you’re too grand. And then as soon 
as your clothes are dry I’m going to take you home.” 

“You didn’t say whether we’d still be friends.” 

“You bet your life we will.” 

Marigold felt let down. She thought men under 
these circumstances generally turned rather white 
about the mouth and said: “Not that—yet!” or: “It 
must be all—or nothing,” or words to that effect. 
Of course she wasn’t in love with George, and of 



196 A Pocketful of Poses 

course she was glad if he wasn’t unhappy; but this 
was not what she had expected- 

“I don’t believe you care a bit,” she wailed. 

George put a hand on either arm of her chair, 
and bent over her. ‘‘Don’t be silly,” he said, his 
voice sounding harsh and angry. “You know I love 
you—that I’m crazy mad for you, and that I al¬ 
ways will be. It’s not so damn much fun to want 
you like hell, and not be able to do anything for 
you but lend you bedroom slippers; but if I can’t 
have you, I’m not going to whine about it. So don’t 
be absurd. Now come along and have some cocoa.” 

She could not sleep that night. She lay awake to 
think of him. She thought of him, heavy-hearted, 
through the days that followed. It made her feel 
desperately lonely and forlorn to see how much him¬ 
self he was, cheerful and occupied. Perhaps it was 
as well that she had decided not to marry him— 
perhaps he had found that after all he did not love 
her. Perhaps his feeling had changed as much as 
hers had. 

For it was not long before there was no use in 
denying to herself that she had fallen in love with 
George. Every bit of her was his, now that he no 
longer asked for anything. She could not even tell 
whether he wanted anything. He was overworked 
that winter, and had not much time to be with her; 
and in January he went away, to be gone for several 


197 


Stormy Night 

months. He wrote to her, but he was busy, and his 
letters were short and unsatisfactory. She cried out 
her heart to him in the dark, and, after a proper in¬ 
terval, wrote back; accounts of the Book Club’s 
Shakespeare tableaux, with Mrs. Poole as Portia, 
in her husband’s college cap covered with red crepe 
paper; or descriptions of the pine-trees along the 
river, changed into silver trees by the frozen mist. 
Sometimes something in one of his letters would 
comfort her, would make her think that still under 
his calmness he loved her as wildly as she now 
loved him. But she must be sure. Suppose she 
told him how she had changed towards him, only 
to find that he no longer needed her. Suppose that 
he loved her because he thought of her as too pure 
for worldly passions, sacred and shining above him., 
Could the worshipper still kneel to the saint who 
stepped down from her shrine 

Suppose he had found another girl to love. 

Marigold tried, as she had tried before, to occupy 
herself with books; or she would write long confi¬ 
dential letters to George that she never sent; but 
she had only to begin to read or write to make Mrs. 
Boynton begin to chatter. “I must say, I like a 
little life and fun,” Mrs. Boynton often said. 
‘‘Somehow I never could act like some people, just 
sit like a bump on a log. I just used to hate to see 
Mr. Boynton with his nose in a newspaper, and 


198 A Pocketful of Poses 

never a sound out of him. It used to get on my 
nerves so!’’ 

‘‘Writing a letter?” she asked Marigold one even¬ 
ing, as she came back into the parlour after a long 
scream at the telephone about some tissue-paper 
cherry-blossoms that were to be made to decorate 
the tables at a coming church supper. 

Marigold hastily pulled a blotter over the “Dear 
George” at the top of her page. 

“Mercy! It must really seem strange to sit still 
and write letters! I wish I could sit down quietly 
and just write all the letters I owe, but now just as 
I thought I was going to have a little time, Mrs. 
Krohl calls up and asks will I undertake making 
cherry-blossoms enough for four tables. It’s funny 
how it’s always the busiest people who get asked 
to do the most, isn’t it? I’ve noticed they’re the 
only ones that ever seem to have the time to do any¬ 
thing. Take Mrs. Wentz or Mrs. Bicknell, what 
have they to do? You’d think they’d be only too 
glad to help, but no, Mrs. Krohl says they say they 
haven’t time! I thought maybe you’d enjoy help¬ 
ing me, but of course you don’t have to if you don’t 
want to, I can manage somehow. Mrs. Krohl says 
they decided to have all the decorations Japanese— 
the cherry-blossoms, of course, and Mrs. Prettyman 
has some Japanese umbrellas she’ll lend, and they’re 
going to rent the lanterns the Methodist Church 
bought last summer for their lawn fete. Then the 


199 


Stormy Night 

girls who wait on table are going to dress up in 
kimonos, and Mrs. Krohl wanted to know if we had 
anything we could lend Juanita. I said I thought 
maybe you’d lend her your pink one, but of course 
I couldn’t say for sure until I asked you. Well, 
don’t let me interrupt you, dear.” 

She sat down, and flapped open the evening paper. 
Marigold began to write again. 

“Oh, Marigold! There’s a William S. Hart 
picture at the Queen to-night—he’s always so good. 
I suppose it would be foolish to try to go, it’s snow¬ 
ing out—I hate to miss one of his, still, it is pretty 
late. Did I tell you Mrs. Schaefer told me she 
heard from some one very much interested in motion 
pictures that he’d had a very sad love story years 
ago? She wasn’t sure if the girl died or what, and 
of course it may not be true, but it would account 
for that wistful look, wouldn’t it? Well, I mustn’t 
talk to you if you want to write. You don’t happen 
to be writing to Miss Hopper, do you?” 

“No,” said Marigold, determined not to tell to 
whom she was writing. 

“Oh, well, I simply thought if your letter was to 
Miss Hopper, I’d ask you to give her my very kind¬ 
est regards-.” 

She finished reading the paper, yawned, and 
played a little tune on her teeth with the edge of 
her eyeglasses. Then she said: 

“If you’re through that important letter in time, 




200 


A Pocketful of Poses 

dear, we might have a game of double dummy. 
Don’t hurry, just if you happen to get through. 
Oh, by the way, Mrs. Marshall didn’t send back my 
magazine with that continued story this afternoon, 
did she^ I’m so interested in it, and she borrowed 
it before I had a chance to see how it turns out. 
If she’d only sent it back, I could be reading it while 
you were finishing your letter. It’s called 'Many a 
Slip’—have you been reading it? There’s this man 
who has enormous oil grants in the West if only he 
can get there in time with the papers-” 

“What papers?” asked Marigold, giving up. 

“Well, whatever papers you need for oil lands— 
I sort of forget that part, it was very technical— 
anyway, these four men, they really are more like 
devils, decide to keep him from getting there in 
time, and to get the papers from him and get the 
oil themselves, and they plan to get him as a captive 
and torture him until he tells them where the papers 
are, but he overhears their plans in a Chinese restau¬ 
rant, and he don’t know what to do, and then he 
happens to meet this second man named Peter who 
looks so like him that no one can tell the difference 
between them, and Renshaw, that’s the first man, 
offers him five thousand dollars to take his place, 
but of course he doesn’t tell him why^ or about these 
four devils, so then he disguises himself and goes off 
with the papers and the devils get hold of Peter, 
and lock him up in this lonely room, thinking he’s 





201 


Stormy Night 

Renshaw, and torture him in every way, but still 
he won’t tell where the papers are, and any way he 
doesn’t know anything about them, so he couldn’t 
if he wanted to. So meantime Renshaw has ar¬ 
ranged to have Lila stay with his mother in the 
country-” 

“Lila^?” murmured Marigold, dazed. 

“Yes, I told you, the girl he’s engaged to, so he 
goes out there to get the papers—oh, I forgot, he 
didn’t have them after all, they were out there all 
the time. I got mixed up. Let’s see, where was I? 
Oh, yes, so the devils hear of it, and two of them 
stay in town to torture Peter, and two of them go 
out to the country to get the papers, and they dis¬ 
guise themselves, but still Renshaw recognizes them, 
but he pretends not to, and they pretend they are a 
cook and a butler who want a place, so he said he’d 
call his mother, and then he went into his mother’s 
room and dressed in her clothes, with a black veil 
over his face, and came out and pretended he was his 
mother, and escaped with the papers in his bonnet 
while they thought they were waiting for him to 
come back. So anyway, by this time Peter and 
Margery have fallen in love with each other-” 

“Who’s Margery^” 

“Seems to me I told you, didn’t T? Oh, didn’t I? 
Well, she was a very beautiful girl that the chief of 
the devils had brought to make Peter tell where 
the papers were, but she fell in love with Peter, and 





202 A Pocketful of Poses 

when the devils planned to kill him that night she 
fixed up the bolster and the washbasin in Peter’s 
bed, because you see the devils thought she was for 
them and against Peter, and when they came in to 
kill him they left the door open, and she and Peter 
ran out, and where the last installment stopped'they 
had just come out of the house and Renshaw was 
just riding up to the door on his tricycle-” 

“Tricycle!” gasped Marigold, dazzled by a 
vision of a gentleman in lady’s clothes and a long 
crepe veil, sedately trundling along on three wheels. 

“Oh, you know what I mean,” Mrs. Boynton said 
impatiently. “Tricycles—bicycles—what do you 
call the things?—motorcycles—and all the spies set 
to watch the house were closing in on them, and 
that’s the way it was left!” 

But Mrs. Boynton was not always in such a 
cheerful mood. At first, after that stormy autumn 
night, she had fluctuated between demonstrative 
affection, and suspicious watchfulness; presently, 
she told herself that Dr. Bellamy and Marigold had 
gotten over their foolishness. But she never missed 
an opportunity to criticize him. 

Out of the boredom and loneliness and confusion 
of the months that followed, one thing grew clear to 
Marigold, simple and sure as breathing and sleeping, 
and that was her love for George. At last some¬ 
thing more important to her than herself was break¬ 
ing in to her, teaching her anguish and ecstasy. But 





203 


Stormy Night 

she had only begun her difficult lessons: there still 
were times when she saw herself, lovely and lonely 
and self-sacrificing, with pangs of pleasurable self- 
pity. 


CHAPTER XV 


BLUE SKY AND THE RECTORY PARLOUR 

M rs. BOYNTON had to go to town to have 
her glasses changed, and, as trains were 
inconvenient, she wrote to her Cousin Lou Campbell 
to ask if she might spend the night with her. Cousin 
Lou replied that she would be delighted, and that 
no better time could have been selected, for there 
was to be a musicale that evening given by two 
young ladies who dressed up in hoop-skirts, and 
played upon the harp and the spinet, and sang old 
English ballads, and she had just been saying it 
was the sort of thing Cousin Eva would revel in. 
So Mrs. Boynton started off on Tuesday morning, 
with a packet of sandwiches and a Western ro¬ 
mance by Mr. Zane Grey, for physical and mental 
refreshment, as she would not reach Cousin Lou’s 
house until nearly three. 

“Now you’re positive you don’t mind being left 
alone?” she asked Marigold, as she stepped into the 
motor that was to take her to the station. “Be sure 
to catch the windows, and don’t forget the cellar 
door—I can’t trust Hulda one particle. I really 
wish I wasn’t going. I’ll worry every minute till I 
get home. If it rains, get Frank to take in the ham- 

204 


Blue Sky and the Rectory Parlour 205 

mock. I told Hulda and Sieka they could go to the 
movies, you wouldn’t mind having supper a little 
early, and if you get nervous, Mrs. Marshall wants 
you to come over and spend the evening with them, 
and Mr. Marshall will bring you home. Oh, and 
Marigold, if Chambers telephones about the awn¬ 
ings while Fm away, tell him-” 

‘Time we startin’. Mis’ Boynton,” put in Frank. 

“All right, Frank, for goodness’ sake don’t let’s 
miss that train—oh, mercy! Marigold! My daffo¬ 
dils for Cousin Lou! On the hall table—quick!” 

As the car rolled away, she was still calling back 
directions. 

Marigold stood on the front steps and considered. 
A day and a night of her own, shining and empty; 
how should she spend her treasure Nothing par¬ 
ticularly interesting suggesting itself, she decided 
to weed the daffodil bed, stripped of its flowers for 
Cousin Lou’s delight. She felt almost happy as she 
worked; the sun was so delicately warm; the blue 
sky paved with such ethereal cobblestones of filmy 
white; the lawn dotted with such big dandelions. 

She heard a motor stop in front of the house, and, 
looking up, saw George Bellamy stepping over the 
small privet hedge and coming towards her. Her 
heart leapt to him; life flamed to lovely colour. 
The dandelions were no longer dandelions, but fiery 
golden stars in a green heaven—stars that she walked 
on as she went to meet him. 



206 


A Pocketful of Poses 

“Marigold!” 

“George! I thought you were still away.” 

“Haven’t been back long. Gosh, it’s wonderful 
to see you—you look more like a bunch of flowers 
than ever.” 

“I look like what you plant flowers in—I’m dirty 
as a pig.” 

“Marigold, I have the whole day free—will you 
come and bum around with me I have some sand¬ 
wiches in the motor. You don’t need a hat, do you? 
You go and get in, and I’ll tell Mrs. Boynton I’m 
kidnapping you.” 

“Mrs. Boynton’s away till to-morrow. I’d love 
to come, George, only I’m so grubby; will you wait 
till I put on a clean frock?” 

“No, I’m afraid you’d spoil the effect. How’ve 
you been, young one?” 

“All right, thank you.” 

“Happy?” 

“Yes, thank you.” 

“You’re welcome—^not that I believe you. Oh, 
Marigold-!” 

“What, George?” 

“Nothing—only being with you again. Do you 
know, always, all the time when I’m away from 
you, I keep up an imaginary conversation with you, 
Marigold?” 

“George, you are nice.” 





Blue Sky and the Rectory Parlour 207 

She gave herself up to the shining day: she tried 
to put out of her mind the thought that it must end. 
The heart of each was a fountain of love for the 
other, and they spoke to each other in voices singing 
with secret happiness, although they talked of trivial 
things. Leaving the motor in a friendly farmyard, 
they walked through the woods, past a clearing 
where bits of stone wall marked the place where 
there had once been a home, and old twisted apple- 
trees still put forth small difficult buds; then out 
on to a little plateau that hung above the earth like 
a magic carpet flying through the sky. Far below 
them lay the bright green valley, with silver threads 
of brooks; with apple-trees like tight bouquets, shad¬ 
ing from red to white; with sheep and little lambs; 
the whole surrounded b}^ blue waves of hills. Beau¬ 
tiful and touching, it was like some heavenly 
meadow where little angels might play their happy 
games. 

They ate their sandwiches and drank their brook- 
cooled ginger-beer, sitting on a carpet of white and 
blue violets and wild strawberry leaves. "‘We’ll 
come here again when the strawberries are ripe,” 
George said. 

“See the trees climbing the hill; every shade of 
green, except those white oaks that look like silver 
trees.” 

“Oh, how nice everything is! May I have a 


208 


A Pocketful of Poses 

cigarette, too, pleaseI feel as if we were in a 
book, don’t you?” 

George, carefully removing a small spider that 
was walking across her dew-stained canvas sand- 
shoe, made no reply. 

“Don’t you?” 

“Don’t I what?” 

“How my conversation enthrals the man! Don’t 
you feel as if we were in a book—the lambs and the 
apple-trees down there—and ginger-beer—and 
both of us having cigarettes?” 

He laughed. “You baby! What do you always 
want to be in a book for? Life’s a lot better than 
any book, and a lot worse, too; and duller, and more 
exciting. Things happen-” 

He broke off, and for a time they were silent. 
Marigold lay looking down at the pattern of leaf 
and starry blossom, watching the tiny insects com¬ 
ing and going through grass and flower-stems, like 
travelers in a forest; seeing George’s brown hand 
absently pulling the short-stemmed violets. Turn¬ 
ing a little, she could see all his long body, dressed 
in old riding-clothes. She could look at him as 
much as she wanted, for his eyes were on the far blue 
hills. She must fill her heart now with food for 
coming days and nights of hunger. His bare head, 
his thin tanned face, his blue direct eyes; she must 
make each detail hers forever. 




Blue Sky and the Rectory Parlour 209 

He looked at her suddenly, with his charming 
smile, and she grew faint with love for him. 

“Marigold—ducky-” 

“Yes?’ 

“Will you do something for me?’ 

“Of course I will, George.” 

“Marry me this afternoon? Darling! Please?” 

She could not speak; she could not believe that 
she had heard him. 

“Marigold, my precious, please! Fve got to have 
you now—I don’t dare wait any longer. We can’t 
go on this way. It’s death for me, having you un- 
happy. I know how you feel about me, but. Mari¬ 
gold, give me a chance! Come to me. Come now, 
darling-” 

“George, George, I can’t!” 

“Are you afraid of me? I’ll be good to you. You 
can’t be more wretched than you are now, and I’ll 
try all my life to make you happy.” 

“It isn’t that—you know it isn’t that—it’s Mrs. 
Boynton. I can’t leave her-” 

He took her hands in his. “Look at me,” he said; 
“No, look straight at me. Marigold. And listen. 
That’s all damned nonsense. You know I’ve never 
lied to you, and I’m not lying now. You’re going 
to marry me this afternoon. I let you go once, be¬ 
fore, and I lost you, but I’m not going to lose you 
this time. Everything’s arranged—I’ve got the 
license, and see, here’s your little wedding-ring; Mr. 






210 A Pocketful of Poses 

Banks expects us on our way home; well just stop 
there a minute, and be married.’’ 

His words sounded sure, but there were beads of 
sweat about his mouth, and his eyes were full of 
terrible anxiety. 

“Unless you come to me now, you never will. 
Marigold. You’ll go on as you are, day afteV day, 
getting a little older and a little more settled, 
with your heart withering up inside of you, and a 
hard rind growing around it, until you can’t feel 
anything any more, love, or beauty, or even pain. 
Sometimes you’ll be almost happy when there’s 

something you like for supper —you -! And 

what will it all be for? So that every now and 
then you can feel the smug glow that comes after 
self-sacrifice, and so that she can feel it towards you. 
You’ve made a picture of yourself as a martyr, and 
that’s what you’re selling your soul for. Marigold, 
for God’s sake, don’t go on with it!” 

She looked away, down into the valley that lay 
like a green cup full of afternoon sunshine; there 
was no sound anywhere except distant cowbells and 
the hidden brook. For a long time they sat in 
silence, his eyes on her face. She tried to think of 
Don; she tried to think of Mrs. Boynton, who would 
be sitting now at the oculist’s, seeing A, B, and C 
upon his chart, and not being sure about D, looking 
forward to the young ladies who would soon be sing¬ 
ing songs full of Hey Nonny Nonnys and Derry 



Blue Shy and the Rectory Parlour 211 

Down Derrys. Then George drew her towards him 
again, and her thoughts vanished like snow-flakes 
falling on the sea. 

“Marigold—you’ll come*?” 

Laughing and crying, she nodded. His arms went 
around her, crushing her, and he said roughly: 

“I’ve got to be honest with you—I’m going to do 
my damnedest to make you every bit my own. I 
told you I’d be contented with the love you had to 
give me—but I’m not. I’ve got to have all of you— 
I’m mad for you. I’ll try to be decent, but don’t 
come if you’re afraid.” 

She lifted her lovely face to him. 

“I’m not afraid. I love you. I didn’t the first 
time you asked me to marry you, but almost ever 
since I’ve loved you so that I’ve nearly died—- 
George-” 

His mouth found hers, and stopped her words. 
Drowning in the waves of love, lifted by the waves 
of love, they clung together. He strained her to 
him, kissing her lips, her eyes, the soft curve of her 
neck, as if he could never let her go. 

“Am I hurting you? Little Marigold! I want 
to hurt you, and I’d die to keep you from ever being 
hurt again. Tell me that you love me.” 

“I love you, George.” 

“My girl—you’re mine, all mine.” 

“All yours, for always and always.” 

Lifting her hands, palms upward, to his lips, as 




212 A Pocketful of Poses 

a worshipper lifts the Chalice, she heard him 
whisper: 

“I adore you.” 

Soon he said that they must start. In the clear¬ 
ing, under the apple-trees, Marigold paused. 

"‘You’ll let me stop and change my dress?” 

“I will not. I won’t let you out of my sight till 
you’ve married me.” 

“This—for my wedding-gown?” she said with a 
tremulous smile, touching her childish dress of faded 
gingham. “I’ve cobwebs in my hair, George—and 
my hands—they’re black. I look like something 
that’s been thrown away for weeks -” 

“You’re so beautiful that I can’t look at you, for 
tears.” He stripped a branch of its blossoms, and 
closed her fingers over them. “White flowers for a 
bride,” he said. 

At the sight and scent of the pale silver flowers 
and small red buds a memory awoke and stirred. 
Moon-drenched boughs of apple-blossom, and a 
man’s voice that cried in her heart, and her own 
that replied: 

“T^// me that you love meT 

“7 love you^ DonJ’ 

'‘And you always wilL Say you always will — 
darling—darling -” 

" 'A Iways^ — always,'^ 

But George had come. With terror and rapture 





'Blue Sky and the Rectory Parlour 213 

she awoke from her dreaming, to know that love was 
not what she had imagined, a melange of reverent 
caresses, petals of blush roses, veils of tender mys¬ 
tery, and mild moonshine generally. She realized, 
dimly, that love could be more bitter than the salt 
sea, sharper than swords; and that when one has 
drunk its bitterness and felt its pain, no sweetness 
nor softness can ever satisfy one again. 

Mr. Banks was waiting for them at the Rectory, 
and had only to step out of the parlour a moment to 
put on his surplice and summon Mrs. Banks, who 
had not been told in advance of what might take 
place, together with Miss Battie and Miss Messie 
Hall, who had happened in to spend the afternoon 
with her. Then he said in a business-like way: “If 
you’ll just stand here by the piano-lamp, please. 
Now, Dr. Bellamy—Miss Trent—if you are 
ready-” 

His voice changed from its week-day to its Sunday 
tones, as he addressed George and Marigold, his 
wife, the Misses Hall, and the cook, who had 
wandered in to say the halibut for dinner had not 
come, and, finding herself at a wedding, lingered 
spell-bound. 

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here 
in the sight of God, and in the face of this company, 
to join together this Man and this Woman in holy 
Matrimony.” 



214 A Pocketful of Poses 

Marigold’s eyes rested on the blue and mustard 
silk of the lampshade; and on “Mother Machree”, 
open on the piano. Some one was sniffing behind 
her, and Mr. Banks was making his voice sound 
resonant, and full of expression. It did not feel like 
being married; it was more like acting charades, 
with Mrs. Banks and Miss Messie and Miss Battie 
and the cook looking on and trying to guess the 
word, except that her knees were trembling so. 

Mr. Banks’ voice was trembling, too, like a 
whistle with water in it. People were apt to speak 
with admiration of the “feeling” he threw into his 
services. 

“George, wilt thou have this Woman to thy 
wedded wife-” 

Suddenly she felt as if she were going to faint; 
the lampshade blurred in a coloured mist; she was 
shaking all over, she could no longer hear what Mr. 
Banks was saying. She turned her head, terrified, 
and met George’s eyes smiling into hers, steady and 
sure, and heard his voice, not trying to have the right 
expression, but as natural as when he told her not 
to eat all the bacon sandwiches at lunch. 

“I George take thee Marigold to my wedded 
Wife, to have and to hold—to love and to 
cherish—” 

It was all right. She was safe; she was with him. 
The mists cleared away, and she stopped trembling. 
She felt the slight chill of the ring encircling her 



Blue Shy and the Rectory Parlour 215 

finger. There was no one else in the world but 
George and Marigold, forever. 

“Allow me to be the first to congratulate you, 
Dr. and Mrs. Bellamy!” said Mr. Banks, hastily 
putting on his cordial, man-of-the-world voice. “I 
wish you both every possible joy!” 

Mrs. Banks said in agitated tones that perhaps 
they would have a glass of raspberry vinegar—she 
and the Misses Hall had just been on the point of 
having some, when Mr. Banks summoned them. “I 
know it’s good, Mrs. Bellamy—Mrs. Bellamy! 
Does that sound odd to you?—because I make it 
myself from a receipt of my grandmother’s, and 
Mr. Banks is very fond of it, so I always put up 
quite a lot, but last year raspberries were so high— 
well, we must all drink the health of the bride. I’m 
sure, and perhaps a slice of cake, very plain. I’m 
afraid—if I’d only known ahead! But at least it’s 
fresh. Arthur, dear. Dr. and Mrs. Bellamy are 
going to join us in a glass of raspberry vinegar.” 

She hurried to the kitchen, shooing the dazzled 
cook before her, while Miss Battie and Miss Messie 
wrung their small red noses with their handker¬ 
chiefs, and tried to keep their fascinated eyes off 
Marigold’s frock, surely an odd one for a bride. 

“Think of you being married, George!” Miss 
Battie said, with a sentimental sniff. “I do declare, 
it seems only yesterday that you were a little tiny 
boy coming in to try to teach the parrot to sing 


216 


A Pocketful of Poses 

‘Once in Royal David’s City’! Oh, dear, how serious 
you were about it! You used to like our molasses 
cookies, too, do you remember?” 

“You bet I do, Miss Mattie, the best molasses 
cookies that ever were baked. You must tell Mari¬ 
gold how to make them. And I’ll never forget how 
crazy I was about your—what was its name? 
Something-or-other, or Wheel of Life, with pictures 
hopping around inside when you turned the handle— 
the lady and gentleman waltzing, and the horse 
jumping over the hurdle.” 

“Sister! Only think! George remembers our 
old Zoetrope! Why you couldn’t have been more 
than five years old, for we lost it when the house on 
Willow Street burned down, and that was over 
thirty years ago!” Eagerly the two old women 
asked their questions. 

“And do you remember-?” 

“And do you remember-?” 

Mr. Banks, meanwhile, engaged Marigold in easy 
chat on the subject of Italy and the Italians (led up 
to by the Amalfi Monk, in sepia, hanging over the 
sectional bookcases) until, after the raspberry vine¬ 
gar and the good plain cake, they were free to go. 

“Lord, darling! I can’t say anything! I think 
I’m going to bust!” said George, as they turned out 
of the Rectory drive. “You don’t hate me for rush¬ 
ing you off your feet that way. Marigold-? Oh, 

my gosh, Ducky, we’re going to have fun!” 





Blue Sky and the Rectory Parlour 217 

“I ought to stop and tell the maids I won’t be 
home to supper—that is, if you’re expecting me?l’ 

“I wasn’t, but never mind. I’ll try to bear it. 
Oh, Marigold! You don’t mind my shouting, do 
you? Oh, Marigold! If I don’t. I’ll blow up into 
two billion small pieces—oh, MARIGOLD!” 

They stopped at Mrs. Boynton’s house, and she 
ran up to the forget-me-not room, and gathered a 
few things together; the rest could be sent for later. 
At Donald’s door she paused a moment; there were 
tears in her eyes, there was love in her heart as she 
said good-by. 

Then down to George who waited; to George who 
was the beginning and the end, who burned within 
her like a clear flame. Just to see his hand on the 
wheel—to put out a finger and touch his coat—to 
meet the look in his eyes- 

He swung the motor in between the pine-trees, 
black against a sweep of sky feathered with small 
pink clouds. Before them, from open door and 
windows, streamed the lights of home. 




4 


Part III: MRS. BELLAMY’S HOUSE 




PARTlII:7J/r5. Bellamy’s House 


CHAPTER XVI 

MRS. BOYNTON, MRS. CAMPBELL, MRS. MEARS, THE 
MISSES HALL, MRS. MARSHALL, MRS. MASON, 
MISS PATTERSON, AND MISS QUACKENBUSH 
GIVE THEIR OPINIONS 

C OUSIN LOU CAMPBELL had meant to have 
creamed oysters for supper, as Cousin Eva 
Boynton was particularly fond of them, but her 
mother, Mrs. Mears, had fortunately remembered 
that there was no R in the month of May, so she 
ordered sweetbreads instead. The three ladies and 
Cousin Edwin Campbell, Cousin Lou’s husband, 
were helping themselves to these, when the tele¬ 
phone rang, and Cousin Edwin, answering it, an¬ 
nounced a long distance call for Mrs. Boynton. 

‘‘Oh, mercy! I hope no one’s dead!” said Mrs. 
Mears. 

"'Mother! You go and answer. Cousin Eva, and 

I’ll send out your plate to keep warm.” 

“Oh, who can it be?” asked Mrs. Boynton. “I 

oughtn’t to have left home—I had a sort of feeling 

—thank you. Cousin Ed. Don’t wait for me, go 

221 



222 


A Pocketful of Poses 

right on with your supper.” In spite of her agita¬ 
tion, she remembered to put on her Society-voice as 
she said into the telephone: “Yes? Mrs. Boynton 
speaking.” 

“Well, Ed, what’s the news in the papers to¬ 
night?” asked Cousin Lou, politely trying not to 
listen to Cousin Eva’s conversation. But Mrs. 
Mears, that unaffected woman, wanted to hear, and 
said so. “Hush, Lou,” she urged. “I can’t hear a 
word Eva’s saying, when you talk to Ed.” 

Eva was saying: “Pardon? I can’t quite get the 
name? Oh.” Her voice grew notably less a Society- 
voice. It shed some of its sweetness, and its sugges¬ 
tion of Southern accent. “Oh, yes, yes, I under¬ 
stand, Dr. Bellamy. Yes, Doctor?” 

“Some one’s sick,” said Mrs. Mears. “I heard 
her say Doctor.” 

“Ssh, Mother. Peas, Ed?” 

“I don’t quite get that. Dr. Bellamy. I think 
we must have a poor connection, there seems to be 
a sort of buzzing and snapping—if you’d just re¬ 
peat that-?” 

“Tell Central to give you a better connection,” 
called Mrs. Mears. “She can if she’s a mind to.” 

“What, Aunt Anna? I wasn’t speaking to you, 
Dr. Bellamy, I was—I can hear you better now— 
yes—excuse me. Doctor, but I think if you would try 
speaking with your mouth a little nearer the 
phone-” 





The Ladies Give Their Opinions 223 

“Click that little side thing up and down,” ad¬ 
vised Cousin Lou, who had given up trying to be 
polite. 

“What, Cousin Lou? Oh, yes. Doctor, yes, what 
about Marigold?” 

George, at the other end of the wire, was saying 
over and over again: 

“I married Marigold this afternoon,” varying it 
with: “Marigold married me.” 

“I can hear Marigold Marigold,” said Mrs. 
Boynton with asperity. “Marigold Marigold this 
afternoon, but what happened to her?” 

“Is it bad news?” shouted Mrs. Mears. 

“What, Aunt Anna? No—I don’t know—he 
just keeps saying Marigold Marigold-” 

George, at his end, rolled frenzied eyes at Mari¬ 
gold, who sat on his desk. “How’s she taking it?” 
she whispered anxiously. 

“I think the shock’s turned her brain—she keeps 
calling me Aunt Anna. Mrs. Boynton, Marigold 
and I were married this afternoon—Dr. Banks 
married us.” 

“It’s buzzing so I couldn’t hear a word but 
bank,” Mrs. Boynton reported to her fascinated 
relatives. 

“Maybe Marigold’s robbed the bank,” suggested 
Mrs. Mears. 

“Marigold — and — I—were—^married—this— 
afternoon,” George repeated. 



224 


A Pocketful of Poses 

‘‘Yes, Doctor, I get it all but what it was Mari¬ 
gold did” and: “Tell her I hope she doesn’t mind 
too much, and I’m dreadfully grateful for all she’s 
done for me, and please to forgive me,” sai(J Mrs. 
Boynton and Marigold simultaneously, one into one 
ear, one into the other. 

“Oh, shut up!” cried George! “No, not you, 
Mrs. Bo)mton—I say not you. If you’d only clear 
out, darling—oh. Lord, now she thinks I’ve called 
her darling-!” 

After five more feverish minutes he hung up the 
telephone and mopped his forehead. 

“Did she mind very much?” asked Marigold. 

“I haven’t the faintest idea whether she knows 
what’s happened or not—we were both delirious 
for the last few hours; she kept screaming ‘Aunt 
Anna’ at me, and something about buzzing and 
snapping—Aunt Anna was buzzing and snap¬ 
ping-” 

“And you kept screaming ‘Shut up, darling,’ at 
her- 

“Lord, Marigold, if I’d known the trouble it was 
going to be. I’d never have married you—you don’t 
begin to be worth it. Come and kiss me- 

But Mrs. Boynton had understood at last. 

“Well, was it bad news?” questioned Mrs. Mears, 
still hopeful. 

“Could you finally understand him?” asked 






The Ladies Give Their Opinions 225 

Cousin Lou. (‘‘Bring back Mrs. Boynton’s plate, 
now, Irma.”) 

Mrs. Boynton’s face was deep pink. She sat 
down and took a drink of water, flapping an agitated 
hand to show that she was speechless with emotion. 

“Is any one deadT’ pursued Mrs. Mears. 

Mrs. Boynton shook her head and clutched at her 
throat. 

“Better get her a glass of sherry, Ed,” advised 
Cousin Lou, fanning Mrs. Boynton with her napkin. 

Mrs. Mears followed her son-in-law from the 
room to suggest that the cooking-sherry would 
answer the purpose admirably: it seemed a shame 
to use the other when Eva was obviously in no 
frame of mind to appreciate it. But she might have 
spared herself the trouble, for she found that this 
sensible idea had occurred to Mr. Campbell as well 
as to herself. ^ 

Somewhat revived by the sherry, Mrs. Boynton 
said: 

“The most awful thing has happened—do you 
remember my telling you about that Dr. Bellamy 
at home*? The one I never liked? Well, Marigold 
has taken advantage of my being away to go and 
get married to him!” 

“For pit'fs sake!” 

“After all you’ve done for her!” 

“I had a feeling when I left home tkis morning 
that something awful was going to happen—a sort 


226 


A Pocketful of Poses 

of premonition. Don’t you remember, I told you 
so when I first got here, Aunt Anna?” 

“No, I don’t,” said Mrs. Mears tactlessly. 

“Well, I did, anyway—I knew there was going 
to be some terrible trouble. I’ve had those feelings 
before, and they always mean something—but to 
think that the minute my back was turned-” 

“Well, that’s gratitude for you,” said Cousin 
Edwin: “that’s what I always say; the more you do 
for any one, the less you need expect.” 

“She might just as well have stabbed me in the 
back!” moaned Mrs. Boynton. “After the comforts 
and love I’ve lavished on her, to turn round and do 
this-!” 

“I should think you’d be pleased, Eva,” Mrs. 
Mears said. “Don’t you recollect telling Lou and 
me what a tax it was having some one in the house 
all the time, using the spare room and all, and how 
you just kept her because she hadn’t any one of her 
own? You remember, Lou, how we felt so sorry for 
Eva, after she told us how tied down she was on 
account of Marigold? I should think you’d be just 
delighted, Eva.” 

“Oh, Aunt Anna, you don’t understand. To think 
she was just waiting until my back was turned—and 
my worrying so because I was afraid she’d be lonely ' 
while I was away— lonely — Hmp!” 

“It’s terrible^ dear. Have another helping of 
sweetbreads? Sure you won’t? Then you may 





The Ladies Give Their Opinions 227 

change the plates, Irma. How long do you suppose 
they’ve had this planned, Cousin Eva?” 

‘'Goodness knows—he says she didn’t know 
ahead, and he just made her this afternoon—at 
least, that’s what I think he said, but it was buzzing 
and snapping and sort of quacking so-” 

“D’you suppose there was any reason they had 
to get married so quick?” suggested Mrs. Mears in¬ 
delicately. 

''Mercy, Mother! Peach or vanilla ice-cream. 
Cousin Eva?” 

“It’s too bad to waste this good supper on me. 
Cousin Lou, I’m so upset I might as well be eating 
sawdust—just a little of both, please. You know 
I wrote you how he wanted her to marry him last 
fall, but, goodness, I thought they’d gotten over 
that, months ago. He’s been away. I can’t seem to 
take it in, somehow.” 

“Well, you never can tell what’s going to happen 
next,” observed Mr. Campbell profoundly. “When 
that telephone rang, who’d have thought all the 
excitement it was going to make? (I’d like another 
helping of cream, Lou.) I just thought it was one 
of Mother Mears’ best beaux calling her up, as per 
usual.” 

“Yes» or one of your sick friends asking you to sit 
with him this evening,” Mrs. Mears replied with 
spirit; and added: 



228 


A Pocketful of Poses 

“You girls better hurry if you’re going to that 
entertainment.” 

“Oh, Aunt Anna! I don’t know whether"! cani 
I feel upset clear through.” 

“Oh, yes. Cousin Eva, it would do you good, take 
your mind off this, and it isn’t as if it was just some 
light foolish show, or the movies, but it’s something 
so really worth while-” 

“After all, nobody’s dead,” Mrs. Mears added. 

“Donald’s dead,” said his mother and burst into 
tears. 

“Excuse me—got to do something,” murmured 
Mr. Campbell in an embarrassed voice and tiptoed 
from the room. 

“Donald’s dead, but who cares? Nobody, no¬ 
body! Every one’s forgotten you, my darling, but 
I don’t forget—I’m all just one great dragging ache 

for you—here—here-!” She beat her breast. 

“Donny! Donny! Mother remembers!” 

“Get the smelling salts, Lou,” urged Mrs. Mears. 
“Here, Eva, you drink this water.” 

Mrs. Boynton’s teeth clicked on the rim of the 
tumbler. “I can’t breathe! My heart aches so, I 
can’t breathe—Donald!” 

“There, there, dearie, don’t take it so hard. You 
were always simply perfect to Donald—you cer¬ 
tainly never can reproach yourself—and you know 
you never thought she was the right girl for him, 
from the very start.” 





The Ladies Give Their Opinions 229 

“No, I never did. She never really appreciated 
him—and sometimes Tve thought that Donald 
realized that she wasn’t all that she seemed at first 
—he never sadd anything, but a mother feels those 
things—but of course Son had such high ideals, he’d 
feel bound to stick to his bargain—he was always 
such a regular Sir Galahad-” 

‘'A very parfait gentil knight,” murmured Cousin 
Lou genteelly. 

These thoughts of Marigold’s unworthiness so 
cheered Mrs. Boynton that, after a liberal applica¬ 
tion of hot water and talcum powder to her face, 
she decided that it would be a shame to waste the 
tickets for the musicale, and, as long as Aunt Anna 
firmly refused to go, she must make an effort. So 
she wound her flowered scarf about her head, put 
on her black silk coat, and, gathering up her white 
gloves and her Dresden silk bag with a mirror in 
the bottom, was ready to join Cousin Lou in the 
taxi-cab that shuddered and throbbed before the 
door. 

During the musicale, she whispered: 

“Cousin Lou! In a way, this gives Donald back 
to me more than anything else could, doesn’t it? I 
think the only thing to do will be to be perfectly 
pleasant to them, but dignified, don’t you?” 

The young ladies were in the midst of singing 
about being off with the Raggle-Taggle Gypsies, 
Oh; and several members of the audience turned 



230 A Pocketful of Poses 

in their seats and looked coldly at Mrs. Boynton, 
but she continued to whisper. 

“If they only had come to me, perfectly frankly— 
but there’s always something not quite nice about a 
sudden marriage like this, don’t you think so*? I’m 
afraid people will talk.” 

Her fears were justified. People did talk. The 
town buzzed like a bee-hive. Never in their lives 
had Miss Battie and Miss Messie Hall, the wedding- 
guests, been invited out to tea so often. They told 
their story a hundred times; how they had been 
sitting on the side porch with Mrs. Banks, never 
thinking a thing in the world, but crocheting bed¬ 
room slippers for the next Church fair, and Mrs. 
Banks had just said: “I’m going to slip in and get 
some raspberry vinegar, it’s such a warm day for 
May,” when Mr. Banks had appeared at the door 
to say: 

“Will you come into the parlour, Emma, and you, 
too. Miss Mattie and Miss Bessie? Dr. Bellamy 
and Miss Trent have come to be married.” 

“You could have knocked us over with a 
feather,” said Miss Messie. “We’ve known George 
Bellamy ever since he was born, you know.” 

“Oh, Sister, much longer than that! Why, we 
knew his father when he was a boy!” 

“So we went in, and there was dear George in 
his old riding-clothes-” 



The Ladies Give Their Opinions 231 

‘‘But looking so handsome!” put in Miss Battie 
sentimentally. 

“Oh, Sister, I wouldn’t call George handsome — 
nice-looking, but never handsome -” 

Urged to continue their story, they reported that 
the bride had worn a gingham frock that would have 
been the better for a trip to the wash-tub, but had 
looked very sweet; that she had seemed nervous at 
first, and that her voice had trembled as she made 
the responses; but that later she had grown quite 
calm and cheerful, and had eaten all of a large slice 
of cake; that Mr. Banks had read the service with 
the most wonderful expression; and that George 
had stepped on a piece of cake and ground it into 
the parlour rug. 

“And the look they gave each other—don’t forget 
that, Sister,” said Miss Battie, with tears in her old 
eyes. 

Mrs. Marshall rushed to see Mrs. Boynton on her 
return from Cousin Lou Campbell’s. She had a 
great deal to say, and was going to be sure that no 
one else had a chance to say it first. 

“Of course, Eva, you can’t blame people for 
talking,” she said. “Or at least, you can blame 
them all day, and all night too, for that matter, but 
you can’t stop them. People are bound to talk 
about a sudden marriage like this, and it’s really 
funny the way every one seems to think I must be 
in the know, just because I’m so intimate with you, 




232 


A Pocketful of Poses 

and because of Don and Dorothy, I suppose. Any¬ 
way, I tell them all that of course there wasn’t any¬ 
thing wrong about it—there wasn’t, was there? No, 
of course not, I never thought for a moment there 
was—but one hears such queer things. Some people 
are saying she seemed sort of drugged—I think it 
was the Banks’ cook told someone—and of course, 
while I don’t believe a word of it, being a doctor he 
would know all about how to do such things, 
wouldn^t he? I’ll never forget how sort of cold and 
unsympathetic he seemed when Junior and little 
Sister were born—the sort of man who’d have his 
own way, no matter what. And then it seemed a 
little funny for a minister to have wine just flowing 
at a wedding at his own house.” 

“It was raspberry vinegar,” said Mrs. Boynton 
honestly. 

''Was it? Well—of course, sometimes things 
get twisted—but I heard—well, no matter. But 
they went past Mrs. Mason’s on the way home, and 
she was in her front yard, and she said he was just 
yelling -” 

“He did sound very thick when he phoned me 
that evening; I could hardly make out a word he 
said.” 

“Well, I only hope for her sake he doesn’t do it 
as a regular thing. And then, Mrs. Banks didn’t 
know a thing about what was going to happen—oh, 
mercy, no!—but all the same she had a wedding- 







The Ladies Give Their Opinions 233 

cake all ready, and one’s so apt to bake a wedding- 
cake just by accident. Looks to me as if Mr. Banks 
must have gotten a pret-ty good fee! Of course, 
I don’t mean he was bribed -” 

At the hospital the nurses were in a twitter of 
excitement. Miss Quackenbush thought it was the 
sweetest thing that had ever happened; Miss Pat¬ 
terson thought they must both be crazy. 

All of George and Marigold’s world seethed and 
bubbled, like a kettle on the boil. 

They two sat one evening in basket chairs on the 
lawn under the pear-tree, having their coffee. Coco, 
restored to his mistress, lay at their feet, cocking an 
eye at the robins that hopped about the lawn tugging 
at worms. The western sky was yellow, but already 
faint stars glimmered through the pine-trees. 

‘"George,” said Marigold, “I don’t care a bit, but 
it does seem queer that in all this world you’re just 
you, biff, like that, and I’m just me —or is it I*? 
Which is it? I? Me?” 

“Mmm,” said George, who was reading the sport¬ 
ing page. 

“What’s the matter?” 

“I’m talking to you! I said, wasn’t it queer that 
you were you, without any one belonging to 
you-” 

“But you.” 

“But me, and I’m I without anypne belonging to 




234 A Pocketful of Poses 

me but you^ and there isn’t one single soul in all the 
rest of the world, except Mrs. Boynton, in a' way, I 
suppose, who’s the least little bit interested in the 
astonishing wonderful marvellous unbelievable fact 
of our having married each other 


CHAPTER XVII 


ECSTASY 

G eorge Bellamy took Marigold to a little 

village by the sea. A mile from the single 
street of shops and small white houses stood their 
cottage, so tiny that Marigold felt as though some 
giant child might at any moment open the whole 
front wall, and rearrange them and their little 
chairs and dishes. 

Behind them lay the pine woods, where the air 
was murmurous all day with the wind in the 
branches; and where the sun fell in long yellow 
shafts through the straight rosy trunks. From their 
door a path led down steep steps of rock to a half¬ 
moon of beach, covered with smooth pebbles and 
tiny shells, white, chocolate, rose, and mauve, 
washed by the waves. The beach was bounded on 
one side by the ocean, and on the others by the curve 
of the little cliff that shut it off from the world, and 
that was hung from top to bottom with harebells 
until it looked like a shimmering waterfall of divin- 
est blue. 

To George and Marigold the summer was a golden 

miracle. Giving to each other the passion and peace 

235 


236 


A Pocketful of Poses 

of love, they were in perfect harmony, body and 
mind and soul. 

Standing in Mr. Peter’s little shop in the village, 
surrounded by potted meats and crab-nets, bathing 
caps, and glass jars of striped sweets, while flies 
buzzed on a sheet of sticky paper, and Mr. Peters 
showed them the seagull he had stuffed, they looked 
at each other suddenly, drowning in love. Waiting 
for their letters, buying lobsters from old Mr. Lane, 
or eggs from his wife, their eyes would meet, their 
hearts would cry to each other: '‘You and I! You 
and I!” 

They had been bathing one day for most of the 
afternoon, going into the crystal water, then coming 
out to lie in the sun. George swam far out, with 
long strong strokes, the foam hissing against his 
body, and then raced back to Marigold, who re¬ 
clined against a rock, admiring the whiteness of her 
feet through the green water, and idly kicking at 
the sea-weed that floated in swirls of liquid colour. 

“Gosh, but Pm a grand swimmer!” he an¬ 
nounced boastfully. “Hope you were looking at 
me then, old dear! Come out and have a sun-bath.” 
They lay together on a steamer rug that he had 
spread over the pebbles, George smoking, Marigold 
with one cheek bulging with a lemon bullseye. Sea¬ 
gulls wheeled high above them, crying mournfully, 
dazzles of white in the boundless blue, or flew so 


Ecstasy 237 

close above the water that their breasts were stained 
with the green reflection. 

George held a spray of harebells over Marigold’s 
face. “Just the colour of your eyes, lovey-dovey,” 
he remarked. 

“Oh, George, you’ve said that about every blue 
thing you’ve seen since we’ve been married; sky, sea, 
harebells, blueberries, Mr. Lane’s overalls, Mrs. 

Lane’s nose that frosty morning-” 

“Garn—I haven’t. I wish you could see the 
shadows these make on your face, little bells of 
shadow all over it.” 

“Sounds like the tattooed man,” said Marigold. 
Her bullseye suddenly caved in with a crash and 
she reached for another. 

“See how they’ve faded,” he said presently, put¬ 
ting down the drooping spray of flowers that stuck 
together like bits of wet crumpled purple silk. “And 
yet if you put them in water they’d freshen and 
straighten; you know the way they stiffen delicately, 
and the flowers open again. They’re like you, dar¬ 
ling. This is the way you were the first time I saw 

you—limp and crumpled and all in, I thought-” 

'‘Did you think so, George^” 

“Yes, I did, and look at you now!” 

“Have I stiffened delicately^” 

“Delicately’s hardly the word, young one—you’re 
wonderful! Strong as a horse, and thank the Lord 
you’re getting fat.” 






238 A Pocketful of Poses 

‘'Oh, George, what a mean thing to say!’’ she 
wailed. “A fat harebell!” 

He pulled her closer to him and kissed her. 

“Happy, my darling'?” 

“I am not! After being called a fat harebell! 
It’s left me feeling very feak and weeble. Besides, 
if I told you I was, you’d give me a scientific lecture 
about its only being a form of mumps or measles or 
something, the way you told me ecstasy was only a 
form of catalepsy.” She rolled into the curve of his 
arm like a sleepy child. 

“Oof! But I love you!” he said. “You and I! 
I don’t give a damn for anybody else. I only care 
about what you and I—what we—think and feel and 
do. This little pig says ‘We, we’!” 

“So does this one,” she said. Suddenly she sat 
up. “George, that’s the difference between us! I 
really feel that way, I really don’t care about other 
people, just about us. But you do care terribly. 
You open your heart to the world. You love it here, 
you love me, but you’d die if you had it steadily. 
You can’t just take, you have to be giving. Oh, if 
I see trouble. I’m sorry. I’m dreadfully uncomfort¬ 
able, and I try to do something—but here, do I care 
whether millions of people are hungry, or sick, or 
bad? I know where to find maiden-hair ferns in the 
woods, and the tall purple-spotted toadstools—I 
know where pink shells are, on the beach. What do 
I care for the rest of humanity? I plaster maiden- 



Ecstasy 239 

hair over my eyes, and put the shells over my 
ears-” 

‘'Careful what you do with the purple spotted 
toadstools,’’ George murmured, “poisonous, you 
know.” But she paid no attention to him. 

“I make myself blind and deaf, deliberately. I 
won't think; it’s too uncomfortable. I twist and 
turn and evade. I think I can do without people 
because I have depths within myself— depths! I’m 
as shallow and brittle as a sheet of ice on a mud- 
puddle! I’m as hard and immature as a green 
apple that’s dropped off the tree. And you! When 
I think of how you’re spending your life—just pour¬ 
ing it out for the people at the hospital—it makes 
me so ashamed. When I want to do something real 
with my life, which is about once every six months, 
what do I do? Muddle, muddle, muddle round in¬ 
side my head. I can’t reach hungry children in 
Russia, and it seems too utterly futile to bother 
about planting geraniums in the Depot Park, and 
what is there in between? But you don’t worry 
about changing the world—you cure the sick Ma¬ 
loney baby and get old Jim Tarr a job sweeping 
out the library—you go ahead and do something.” 

“My darling child, what a stirring speech! Of 
course not in the least prejudiced.” 

“George, I’m dreadfully in earnest. Will you 
help me to make it worth while, my having been 
born? I want to be a help to you; you don’t know 







240 


A Pocketful of Poses 

how it makes me feel, knowing that any one of those 
nurses I used to be so sweet and patronizing to, 
really is worth more to you than I am. Will you 
give me definite hard work to do for you^’’ 

“I might find you something to do if you really 
wanted it. Marigold, but it wouldn’t be romantic or 
picturesque.” 

“Oh, I don’t want Xo smooth fevered brows, or 
any pretty little thing like that! I want hard work.” 

“I thought you were the girl who put ferns over 
her eyes and didn’t care about humanity.” 

“I don’t know what girl I am,” she answered 
honestly. “I can talk myself or read myself into 
being any girl. I start out one thing, and by the 
time I’m through talking. I’ve changed into an en¬ 
tirely different thing, and I don’t even know when it 
happened. Just now I’m so crazy about you, I 
want to be as like you as I can, but I don’t know 
what 1 am, really.” 

“I know what you are to me. I was as dried-up as 
as a kippered herring, with dust an inch thick all 
over me, when I found you. Marigold. Darling, 
promise you’ll open my eyes when they become fast 
closed to the things you see so clearly—my little 
blessed one.” 

“The things I see clearly? Maiden-hair 
ferns-?” 


She smiled into his eyes, catching her breath, as 



Ecstasy 241 

he gave her the look she loved, smiling and pro¬ 
found. 

“Call it whatever you like, maiden-hair ferns, 
or God Almighty. Come on, one more swim. It’s 
getting cold.” 

His words sang in her heart; and as they climbed 
dripping up the stone steps together, she said, be¬ 
ginning her beautiful life-work of keeping George’s 
eyes open: 

“Look at the sunset, all that soft luminous pearly 
pink, and the little curled feathers of mauve; isn’t 
it gentle, George? Isn’t it gentle^'' 

“Awfully gentle; wouldn’t alarm a flea,” George 
agreed amiably. “Let’s make griddle cakes for 
supper, shall we. Marigold?” 

September came, too soon. In the daytime every¬ 
thing was as bright and glistening as wet cakes of 
paint in a colour-box. In the chilly evenings fog 
rolled in from the sea, and their fire roared up the 
chimney. 

They came in together towards dark on their last 
day there. They had walked for miles, and said 
good-bye to all their secret places. Rain drummed 
on the roof, shutting them off from the world. 

“You’ve got rain in your hair, ducky,” George 
said. “Little drops all over, that make it curl up 
like sixty, and your cheeks are as red as I don’t 
know what.” 


242 


A Pocketful of Poses 

‘‘Boiled beets?’’ suggested Marigold, hoping not. 

“Scarlet silk. You like that better, don’t you?” 

He lay back in his deep chair, his muddy Tboots 
stretched to the blaze; and Marigold sat on the 
edge of the table, looking like a child with her short 
skirt and little woolly jacket. They were drinking 
tea and eating buttered toast. 

“I’m butter from head to foot,” she said. “I 
feel like a greased pig. I’ve butter on my nose, 
and butter on my chin, butter everywhere without 
and everywhere within.” 

“So’ve I,” said George. “Butter on my fingers, 
butter on my snout, butter everywhere within and 
everywhere without. That’s what I call buttered 
toast. Ma’am, big honest gobs of butter, no refined 
little scrape. I’m developing you into a grand cook. 
Marigold.” 

“Speaking of cooks-” 

“I know. Also speaking of housemaids, and 
housekeeping, and going back to work, and curious 
callers coming to look at the bride. It’s going to be 
a far cry from seagulls and pine-trees. Marigold. 
Getting frightened?” 

“Never, about anything, as long as I’m with you! 
And we’ll keep the seagulls and the pine-trees in our 
hearts-” 

“We will that! And the wind and the waves. 
We’ll keep the ocean in our hearts, young one, and 




Ecstasy 243 

when we don’t like things, we’ll throw them into 
it, won’t we?” 

“Oh, I do depend on you so! You never fail me. 
I’ll always try to do what you want me to, George,” 
she cried emotionally. 

“A very proper sentiment. If you want a pleas¬ 
ant day. Let your husband have his way. Old 
Adage.” 

“Well, I like that! When I was feeling so sort 
of thrilled and holy about you—hmp! If you want 
a happy life. Always try to please your wife. Rustic 
Proverb!” 

He pulled her into the big chair with him, kiss¬ 
ing her face and hair. With his lips on her cheek, 
he said: 

“We won’t forget the nights we’ve lain safe and 
warm, when the wind blew so that you were afraid 
it would blow off the roof—little goose—and carry 
it out to sea.” 

“Oh, I did think it would go sailing off, and that 
we’d have a shower of stars about us! It has been 
a shower of stars, this time together, George. Can 
we keep like this? I mean, not settle down and 
get dull and drab and used to each other? Can 
we? Think of the people in restaurants, sitting 
and never saying a word to each other, just look¬ 
ing so bored, and you know right off that they’re 
married. After awhile, it doesn’t seem to matter 
a bit to any one who they’re married to, as long as 




244 A Pocketful of Poses 

they’re used to each other. Will we get to the 
point where you’ll say: ‘You should speak to the 
butcher about this beefsteak, my dear,’ and after 
fifteen minutes I’ll come back with something ex¬ 
citing like, ‘Did you have a hard day, George?’ 
or ‘The man came to look at the kitchen boiler’? 
Promise me that we won’t get that way! Other 
people do start in like us, I suppose, and they do 
drift apart. Each one of them goes on thinking 
his own thoughts, never listening to the other really^ 
separate, lonely—promise me that we won’t 
change!” 

“I can’t promise you that, Marigold. But we 
really love each other.” 

“Then we’ll be happy!” 

“Happiness doesn’t matter much. There’s only 
one thing that matters, and that is that we should 
be true to each other. I don’t mean faithful. I 
mean we mustn’t pretend or smooth over, just to 
make things pleasant for the moment. There’s 
something real in you—in me—in the feeling we 
have for each other; we must be true to that. My 
own dear girl. I’m saying it so badly. I’m bobbing 
for words the way you bob for Hallowe’en apples. 
D’you know what I mean at all? It’ll be hard as 
the devil sometimes, but that doesn’t matter. We 
must go straight through anything, pain, grief, 
death, for truth. Sometimes we’ll have to hurt each 
other. That’s what frightens me, darling. I know 



Ecstasy 245 

your little tender heart, and how you can’t bear 
to have any one suffer. I’m afraid of your keeping 
things from me if you thought they’d make me 
unhappy! Never pretend to me, Marigold, never! 
You must not.” 

For a moment a curtain lifted, and they looked, 
not moving, not breathing, each into the other’s 
eyes, conquering for one instant life’s long isolation. 




/ 


CHAPTER XVIII 


«< 


DINNER AT MISS ARCHIBALD’S 

G eorge brought Marigold back to a different 
world from Mrs. Boynton’s, and watched her 
grow bright and glowing in the sympathetic atmos¬ 
phere. 

“I feel like a Japanese water-flower dropped into 
a finger-bowl,” she told him. “You know those little 
things that stay all tight and dull until you put 
them into water, and then they spread open and 
show all sorts of colours. And I do like your friends, 
George—they really are grand to show off to!” 

“There’s a new one next door that you can prac¬ 
tice on,” said George. “Hugo Curry’s back from 
Paris. His aunt is back from somewhere, too, to 
Hugo’s fury.” 

“Will I like himT’ asked Marigold, ignoring the 
aunt. 

“I don’t know—yes, I think so—I hope so. I’ve 

known him since he was a kid, although he was in 

Paris most of the time. But they used to come 

here every now and then—Mr. Curry all business, 

and Mrs. all clothes and melting glances and dulcet 

246 



247 


Dinner at Miss Archibald's 

tones—not for her own family, though. Hugo was 
always having tutors, and she was always having 
affairs with them. Then he had an older sister 
named Blanche, who was married to a title, and 
was awfully unhappy, poor little kid. She had a 
baby, and I remember Hugo telling me that she 
and it both cried all the time, so that it was no 
fun being with her any more. Then when he was 
thirteen his mother ran off with a young Italian, 
and there was the devil to pay.” 

It was several days before Marigold saw her 
neighbors. But, grubbing among the tall pale 
pansies in the shade of the hedge, one hot Septem¬ 
ber afternoon, she head a crackling above her and, 
looking up, saw a head—a beaming purple face 
beaded with moisture, with wisps of grey hair spray¬ 
ing out from under an old sun-helmet. Framed in 
cedar branches, it seemed as disembodied as the 
Cheshire Cat. 

“Best dig ’em all up,” the head advised. “They’ll 
never amount to anything there. Your iris needs 
thinning. You’d better pull up that aconitum, my 
dogs may come in and eat it, and it’s deadly poison.” 

Marigold, with a feeling that her garden was 
being uprooted before her eyes, gazed speechlessly 
at the face. 

“You’re the bride, I suppose. I’m your next- 
door-neighbor. My name is Daisy Archibald, but 


248 A Pocketful of Poses 

my nom-de-plume—I write, by the way,—is John 
Strong.” 

‘'Oh, yes —began Marigold, but Miss Archi¬ 
bald interrupted: 

“Don’t pretend you’ve heard of me, for you 
haven’t. Not caring a whoop for the public, the 
natural consequence is that the publishers don’t 
care a whoop for me. However, I’m at work on 
one now—well, we’ll see. The trouble is, I write 
reality, and people can’t go that, you know. If I 
find you interesting, I may put you in one of my 
novels, but I make no promises; you look rather 
pink and white. Crawl through the hedge, and I’ll 
show you my garden, if you like—here’s a place.” 

Marigold crawled through, and found heself be¬ 
hind the lodge of the big estate next door. There 
were basket chairs under a mulberry tree, and two 
fat old spaniels slept in the sunshine; the shaven 
lawn swept away towards the great house, and 
through the trees Marigold caught glimpses of beds 
glowing with autumn flowers; but the borders near 
the lodge were sparsely filled, and generally rather 
greenish-brown in effect. 

“D’you know my nephew, Hugo Curry asked 
Miss Archibald. “That’s his house—it annoys him 
frightfully that I won’t live in it. He’s in Paris 
most of the time—happens to be here just now. I 
won’t live there because I’m a Socialist, and it’s too 
large and luxurious, so I make Hugo let me have 




249 


Dinner at Miss Archihaldfs 

the lodge, to lead the simple life in; that’s why I 
wear overalls and a smock. What d’you think of 
my garden^” 

Marigold uttered polite insincerities, but they 
were lost in the torrent of Miss Archibald’s speech. 

“You see, this border is a mass of yellows—from 
cream to deepest orange—at least, it isn’t just now, 
but if you only had seen it a couple of weeks ago! 
I planted for succession, but Rover and Fido will 
get in and roll.” She indicated the dreaming 
spaniels. “This bed would have been exquisite, pink 
and mauve—callistephus hortensis—but the aster- 
beetles came; that’s why I put in the ashes; the 
dahlias were wonderful until the big wind last 
week, that blew mine all over; you really should 
have seen the garden then, or a few weeks from 
now, when the anthemas tinctoria comes on. I wish 
you could have seen my garden in England. I had 
a little place there. Crow Clump, its name was. 
Roses like cabbages, and the roof one sheet of colour 
with the antirrhinums—there was a garden that was 
a garden!” 

“What’s this,” asked Marigold, indicating a 
meager clump of dark leaves. 

“That^ That’s Helleborus niger—you know, 
Christmas rose; Rover dug a place for a bone under 
it and it hasn’t been quite the same since. How 
d’you like my dogs’ names, by the way*? It’s always 
so difficult to decide which way to be clever when 








250 


A Pocketful of Poses 

you’re naming animals, don’t you thinks I mean, 
whether to name them frightfully original things, 
or frightfully obvious ones, like Dobbin for a horse, 
and Dicky for a bird. As for falling back on the 
Old Testament, lhal I call plain cowardice.” 

She lowered herself ponderously into a creaking 
chair, and stuck a cigarette into the corner of her 
large mouth. ^'I’m practicing on a pipe in private,’^ 
she confided. “But I’m not quite perfect at it yet. 
I smoke it perfectly, of course, but I have a feeling 
that I still look a trifle self-conscious. Have a 
cigarette^ But I advise you not to. Your nose 
is too short to make it becoming. You’re really 
very pretty, aren’t you? It must give one’s face 
quite an odd feeling to look as pretty as yours does. 
If I’d had your looks and my brains. I’d have been 
either a King’s mistress or in the gutter by now. 
How do you like your husband?” 

“Very much, thank you,” Marigold answered, 
feeling as if she were dreaming. 

“He may go into my book; he’s a curious speci¬ 
men,” said Miss Archibald, as if George were a 
sea-horse or a bower-bird. “I’m calling it 'Withered 
Apples’—good name, might mean anything. In¬ 
triguing. I like the dedication, rather. 'To You 
—if you still remember.’ Pretty good, eh? Poign¬ 
ant. To you with a capital Y dash if you still re¬ 
member. Every man I ever knew will buy it, think¬ 
ing it’s meant for him. There’s my nephew riding 


251 


Dinner at Miss Archibald's 

in. Yoo-hoo! Hugo! He won’t answer, because 
he disapproves of shouting, and I keep on shouting 
because I disapprove of his not answering. Hello, 
he is stopping—he must have seen you.” 

Marigold watched Hugo Curry dismount and 
walk across the lawn to them; he was short and 
slight, with a white face and black hair; he looked 
like some smoothly finished portrait painted in the 
sixties, and the grave politeness with which he bent 
over her rather earthy hand was as old-world and 
remote as his appearance. His voice had a sighing, 
singing quality; she understood why it caused his 
aunt to raise hers, already loud and hearty, to the 
pitch one might use in hailing a distant ferry, as 
she suggested jovially that they should all have 
a glass of wine. 

“I think I’ve tumblers enough to go round if you 
don’t mind using the tooth-brush mug, Hugo, and 
I have some fresh cracknels, too. They’re really 
pretzels, but I call them cracknels because that 
sounds so quaint and medieval,” she said. 

“Aunt, I’m filled with apprehension; if it’s that 
dandelion wine you made. I’d rather die than drink 
another glass of it. If you’ll come up to the house, 
I’ll give you a decent drink.” 

“All right,” said his aunt, with the greatest good¬ 
nature. “That wine is rather nasty; besides, it’s 
apt to explode when you touch the bottle. Come 
on!” She thrust her arm affectionately through 


252 


A Pocketful of Poses 

Marigold’s, and they strolled up the avenue to the 
shady verandah of the big house, where a footi3;ian 
brought them things to eat and drink. 

“Disgusting, the way you live, Hugo!” Miss 
Archibald said rather thickly through a mouth full 
of caviare sandwich, as she helped herself to whisky 
and soda. “Never mind, you’ll be glad of a crack¬ 
nel and a tooth-mug of my dandelion wine when 
the Revolution comes—and it’s coming fast, my 
dear. We thinkers are working for it, without haste, 
without rest, bind the motto to thy breast—where’s 
the man^ I could do with one of those anchovy 
things.” Reaching for sandwiches, she managed 
with a sweep of her arm to break several bud-laden 
stalks from the flowering plants in an old Italian 
urn, but had the presence of mind to exclaim, as 
she gathered them up: 

“Poor little buds—too, too tired to bloom!” 

“What wonderful gold-fish you have in your 
pool,” Marigold said hastily to Hugo, trying to 
dispel the slight frown that appeared on his fore¬ 
head as he watched his aunt, who, having broken 
his buds, was now splashing soda indiscriminately 
into her glass and onto a heap of sea-green cushions 
that lay on the red tiles of the verandah floor. Her 
mild remark attracted Miss Archibald’s attention. 
She took a long look at Marigold through pince-nez 
attached to a broad black ribbon. 

“What d’you think of her, Hugo^” she inquired, 




253 


Dinner at Miss Archibald's 

as if Marigold were stuffed and in a glass case. 
“Isn’t she young and pretty, what^ You’d think 
with that pink and white face she’d have a mind 
like Bavarian sponge, but not at all! Quite intelli¬ 
gent, I find! Lovely colour, eh^? Too bright at 
present, as we’re both looking at her, so let’s look 
away and change the subject. Why don’t you all 
come to dinner with me on Monday—you can bring 
your husband, and Hugo can bring his cook, if he 
minds a meal out of tins. I sent my own cook pack¬ 
ing—the foaming idiot! She boiled twelve Indian 
Chiefs—boiled and creamed them and sent them in 
for my supper.” 

“She boiled what?” 

“A dozen Indian Chiefs—you know, those won¬ 
derful tulips, mahogany-coloured and purple, per¬ 
fectly huge and frightfully expensive. The bulbs 
cost three dollars apiece, and she found them in a 
basket and thought they were onions.” 

“What’s Mr. Curry like^” Marigold asked 
George that evening after dinner. 

“Oh, all right. Have I had a second cup of coffee 
yet?” 

“Not yet. What a vivid description—‘all 
right!’ ” 

“Tell me what you thought of him.” 

“I couldn’t stand him!” she said, dropping sugar 
into George’s cup with an emphatic splash. “He 



254 A Pocketful of Poses 

was so refined and exquisite, murmuring about how 
to make moss grow on garden paths, and white pea¬ 
cocks in the moonlight, and Irish poetry; he made 
me want to bellow! I never felt so like being rough 
and tough in my life! I wanted to talk about prize¬ 
fights and pig-raising—I wanted to walk like Charlie 
Chaplin—and that sensitive mouth twitching at the 
corners— oo! George, you can’t think how you shine 
by comparison! I’m fearfully taken with you. 
Gilded leather—lead garden figures—Fiona Mac- 
leod—Pish! FosUr 

‘'Oh, don’t be so hard on him. I wish you liked 
him; I’ve known him since we were kids, and I 
understand him. He’s had a rotten sort of life, a 
delicate morbid boy brought up by servants. He’s 
done pretty well, considering that he’s always had 
too much money and nothing to do. He has an 
interesting mind; if you knew him better you’d like 
him better. And you’ll find him responsive—he’s 
as sensitive as a sensitive plant. He’s a lonely soul 
—be nice to him. Marigold.” 

“All right. I’ll try to be, but because of you, not 
because of him. I—don’t—like him!” 

But she dressed herself with care for Miss Archi¬ 
bald’s dinner. She might not like Hugo, but she 
wanted him to admire her, and she felt that he had 
the seeing eye; not like George, who, if he noticed 
a frock at all, would say, on its twentieth appear¬ 
ance. “New dress. Marigold?” She wore a quaint, 





255 


Dinner at Miss Archibald's 

full little frock of blue-grey taffeta, sashed with 
scarlet; and her blue eyes were dark, and her pink 
cheeks bright, as Hugo drew out the chair for her 
at Miss Archibald’s table. 

“How can you call youself a flower lover, and 
have these on the table, Aunt^” questioned Hugo, 
looking with distaste at the centerpiece of elderly 
dahlias that had been freshened by having their 
withered petals pulled out, so that each flower pre¬ 
sented a circlet of coloured petals backed by a quan¬ 
tity of semi-transparent greenish yellow scales. 
“Why in the world didn’t you come up to the gar¬ 
dens and help yourself?” 

“I like these—quite a blaze of colour. The scarlet 
and the magenta ones are quite wonderful together, 
aren’t they? So daring, quite a shout! I’m not 
contented with one sesthetic iris and some coloured 
pebbles, as you are, Hugo, I must have masses!” 

“Flower arranging is rather important, don’t you 
think?” Hugo asked Marigold. “I should never 
dream of leaving it to servants, as most people do. 
I had a butler once who came to me from Lord 
Inchpen, who was forever asking if he mightn’t do 
the flowers, as he’d always done them at Staines 
—Inchpen’s seat, you know—so one night I let him. 
My dear, what do you think he did? An American 
flag of red, white and blue flowers, done in ripples!” 
He closed his eyes for a moment, as if the very 
memory made him feel faint, and then went on. 



256 


A Pocketful of Poses 

‘‘So much depends on the room, doesn’t it^ My 
drawing-room in Paris, for example, absolutely cries 
aloud for crimson and purple anemones: it has 
white paneled walls, with old Venetian looking- 
glasses, wavy and dim and green, like the sea-” 

A small sniffing ceature, looking like a leprechaun 
wearing its hair in a charwoman’s bun, here offered 
a dish composed chiefly of a bit of gristle and a bit 
of bone, hidden under rice, and Hugo Curry inter¬ 
rupted his aunt, who was giving George a highly 
technical talk on the breeding of English sheep 
dogs, to ask: “Is this the work of my cook. Aunt?” 

“Oh, I forgot to tell you, Hugo, I sent her back.” 
She made a terrific face behind the back of the 
leprechaun, evidently intended to convey diplo¬ 
matically that they must wait for further informa¬ 
tion until she had left the room, which she did soon, 
with the dragging step of a fox caught in a trap. 

“You see, Bridgie—that’s Bridgie, only we’d bet¬ 
ter call her something else, in case she comes back 
unexpectedly—Alice, say—well, Bridgie—Alice, *I 
mean—came in last night, just off the road. She 
evidently had had a leading. She’s willing to do 
everything, cook, wait, clean, it’s quite wonderful. 
I should have let you know I didn’t need Mrs. Bent, 
Hugo, but I quite forgot I was giving a dinner this 
evening until she appeared. Bridg—Alice—is the 
most colourful creature, pure Celt, that Irish charm, 
you know.” 







Dinner at Miss Archibald’s 257 

“She looks like a bit of the bog,” said Hugo 
coldly. 

“All the sorrow of Ireland in her heart, and the 
wit of it on her tongue!” Miss Archibald went on, 
with enthusiasm. “Sure, she's seen Thim Wans! 
In the moonlight under a thorn tree it was, and the 
next day wasn't it O'Leary's Kathleen was gone 
from the place of her, and niver a wan afther laying 
eyes on her again at -all at all! And didn't Bridgie 
—^Alice, I mean—find a little wee shoe, no bigger 
than would hold your thumb—the thumb of you, I 
mean—under a hedge where a fairy cobbler had 
dropped it. What are souffles and entrees to that, 
may I ask? She's seen the Ould Boy, let me tell 
you, and wasn't himself afther pushing her straight 
into the lake of the rushes, with her feet in the air 
and her head in the water— wather —and if his 
Riverence Father Sullivan hadn't chanced by, sure 
it's there she'd be yet. It was picking the primroses 
she was on May-Eve and as I was saying. Dr. Bel¬ 
lamy, golf is so good for getting men out into the 
open air!” 

This remarkable climax was occasioned by the 
dragging entrance of Bridgie-Alice with a dish of 
ice-cream that had been frozen so hard that for a 
time conversation was almost drowned by the clash 
of spoons slipping to plates as the diners struggled 
to chip bits off the stony substance. But later, in 
the little parlour, while a muffled groaning behind 



258 A Pocketful of Poses 

the outspread music on the piano indicated that 
Miss Archibald was singing, and while Rover and 
Fido lifted up their heads and sang, too, pfugo 
talked to Marigold. He drew his chair very near 
hers, and talked in a low murmur, in order not to 
disturb the music, for which George was turning the 
leaves. 

“Fm going to be very brave, Mrs. Bellamy, and 
ask the most tremendous favour. Directly I saw 
you, I knew I couldn’t be happy until Fd tried to 
paint you—I daub a bit; George may have told 
you. Will you be wonderful, and let me do you*?” 

Miss Archibald, in the midst of one of India’s 
Love Lyrics, remarked tunefully: 

“You’d het-ttr ask George, he’s hearing ev’ry word you sa-ay 
And look-ing quite cross I make it clean and bri-ight, 

Love’s last reward, Death, comes to me toni-ight-” 

“George, may I paint your wife? Aunt will 
bring her pipe and chaperon us, won’t you. Aunt? 
And talk Irish to Mrs. Bellamy to bring a dream 
to the eye of her—or, if you can’t come. Aunt 
perhaps you’ll lend us the Sprig of Shamrock her¬ 
self. Do say you will, Mrs. Bellamy!” 

“I’ll think about it,” said flattered Marigold. 
She felt beautiful and cherished for the rest of 
the evening, and when she overheard Hugo say to 
Miss Archibald: “The porcelain tints of the little 
thing! The purity of colour!” and again when he 



Dinner at Miss Archibald's 


259 


touched her finger-tips to his lips at parting, mur¬ 
muring: “Princesse du Pays de la Porcelaine!” she 
found it almost impossible not to smirk. 

But when George said from his dressing-room, 
between two great yawns: “Didn’t you find you’d 
been too hard on Hugo^? You seemed to be having 
a good time together to-night,” she answered 
vehemently: 

“I can’t bear him! Conceited thing! Being 
subtle and whimsical all over the shop, and shud¬ 
dering at colours, and wincing at noises-!” 

She decided that nothing would induce her to 
pose for him. Later, lying awake, she thought per¬ 
haps she would, after all. He wouldn’t talk when 
he was painting, and it would be nice for her chil¬ 
dren to have a portrait of their mother when she 
was young. Still later, sleeping, it was of him she 
dreamed. 



CHAPTER XIX 


POSING FOR HUGO 

H ugo CURRY’S portrait of Marigold did not 
progress far: Hugo was not given to finishing 
things. His paintings were notes of fresh and 
charming colour, but they remained notes. Hands 
he could not draw, so most of his ladies carried 
muffs, or, if they had been painted when the weather 
was warm, plunged their fingers deep into splashes 
of crimson lake or prussian blue, that were, when 
you stood far enough away and half shut your eyes, 
masses of roses or larkspur. 

He not only painted in water-colours, but wrote 
little poems, untrammeled by meter or rhyme, that 
sounded as if they might mean a great deal if you 
only had time to think them out. These he copied, 
in a small, exquisite hand, into a large volume with 
vellum leaves, bound in green leather beautifully 
tooled in gold, and sometimes he painted for them 
initial letters, sprouting with vines and flowers of 
scarlet and blue. One or two poems about Mari¬ 
gold found their way into the book, comparing her 
to almond blossoms in the rain, or white foam on 
the sea. He improvised, and often sat for an hour 


261 


Posing for Hugo 

or so in the twilight calling forth quite Debussy- 
like chords from the piano; and here again Mari¬ 
gold was often an inspiration. Also he sang, in 
a small, pleasant, tenor voice, obscure folk-songs, 
or ballads in old French. 

“It is such a mistake to pursue things to the 
bitter end,” he said to Marigold while she posed 
for him. “I don’t believe in bitter ends—or in ends 
at all, or in finishing things. Take anything ex¬ 
quisite—mist—the scent of flowers—the colour in a 
simset sky—no end, no abrupt finishing, but a subtle 
shading off into nothings. Why shouldn’t we learn 
from Nature? A finished thing is an insult to one’s 
intelligence—a door swung shut in one’s face. A 
thing left, as I am leaving this little sketch of you, 
is a path, a vista, a glimpsing of far hills. It isn’t 
just in painting or poetry or music, but all through 
life, one should learn the art of leaving things un¬ 
finished.” 

Marigold, secretly rather impressed, repeated 
these views to George. 

“Fine idea!” he agreed amiably. “I’ll try it the 
next time I have a surgical case—fade away like 
the scent of a flower while I’m sawing up my patient 
—and you do it when you’re paying bills. Never 
finish, darling, never finish. Be a mist and melt 
away just before you write out a check for the 
butcher. Or write it, but don’t sign it. I’ll bet 
Hugo’s made a disciple of the cook—those sweet- 



262 


A Pocketful of Poses 

breads last night were the most unfinished things 
Fve struck in some time.” 

»* 

She described the sittings to George. ‘‘It’s just 
like the movies,” she said. “When I think of 
Father’s studio—so bare, with a little stove, and 
an easel, and a kitchen table for his paints and 
things, and one big couch covered with shabby 
denim—and then look at Hugo’s! If any paint got 
on anything there, he’d die. Prayer rugs, and tapes¬ 
tries, and apple-green walls and purple silk hang¬ 
ings, because he vibrates to apple-green and purple, 
and an open fire, and pots of fuschias, because he 
vibrates to fuschias—George, really and truly, I 
feel as pop-eyed as Samanthy Hicks from Podgers’ 
Corners. And tidy! I think he’d really like to 
paint in gloves. Directly he’s through for the day 
he dashes behind a Chinese screen that was once the 

property of Clarissa, Lady Cheese-Parings- 

“Of Muffins-cum-Butter-” 

“Hot-Milk Moat-” 

“Hurry-Scurry-” 

“Bampton, Biff! What was I telling you? Oh, 
I know—Hugo dashing behind the screen. And 
then, my dear, he takes a bath, practically, and 
emerges, having shed his painting smock, in a bro¬ 
caded house-coat-” 

“Vibrating like forty, I suppose?” 

“Vibrating all over the place. You must have 
a house-coat, George. We can’t afford brocade, but 







263 


Posing for Hugo 

ril have enough chintz left over to make you one 
when my new bed-room curtains are done—blue, 
with bunches of field-flowers—you’ll look magnifi¬ 
cent. And then we have Hugo’s own particular 
private tea that’s grown 'only for him and the 
Emperor of China—it’s kept locked up in a 
lacquered cabinet with dragons on it, and Hugo un¬ 
locks it himself, and measures it out, and shows 
me dried jasmine ibuds in it—oh, and I forgot to 
tell you that there’s a little incense burning all the 
time—really and truly cinema, you see, so far as 
setting goes.” 

“How about plot?” 

“Isn’t any plot—there I sit, expecting to have 
my fatal beauty go to his head like wine, and it 
goes to his head like an ice-cream soda. Hugo’s 
much too neat to get mixed up in any plot, my 
dear.” 

“Miss Archibald told me she had no doubt he 
was keeping half the pretty actresses in Paris.” 

“Miss Archibald’s a born optimist. She told me 
about his socks—dozens and dozens of pairs, ar¬ 
ranged so that they shade from thick to thin, and 
from colour to colour—that I can believe.” 

She did not grow to like Hugo himself as the 
days went on, but she liked his attitude towards 
her. She liked the look in his eyes as he studied 
her; his little, lightly flattering speeches that al¬ 
ways suggested so much withheld, unspoken; she 





264 


A Pocketful of Poses 

liked his air of a delicate secret between them, al¬ 
though what the secret was she would have been 
puzzled to say. She realized that he missed ho 
slightest subtlety of all her graceful gestures. She, 
for her part, responded perfectly. She had said 
(had, indeed, meant) that Hugo’s gentle voice 
made her long to shout, that his exquisite, and, to 
be candid, old-maidish ways inspired her to rough¬ 
ness and toughness. But when she was with him 
she could no more help being gentle and exquisite, 
than a drop of water can help looking the colour of 
the leaf it lies on. The stage was set for preciosity, 
and Marigold knew her part. 

On the last day she posed for him, Hugo said: 

“It’s a poor thing, Marigold—but I’ll be grateful 
to it always, because it’s given me you, so that I’ll 
never forget the least line or tint of you. I’ve shut 
you up in my mind forever, whether you’re willing 
or not.” 

“It’s lovely! Much, much too good-looking, but 
I like that. George will love it.” 

“You can’t forget George for a moment, can 
you^?” 

“I don’t want to forget him.” 

“No, of course not. Nor George you, I suppose. 
Idyllic, what, as Aunt would say. Stop to lunch, 
won’t you?” 

“No, I must hurry home—I had a coat some¬ 
where-” 



265 


Posing for Hugo 

Helping her into it, he suddenly drew its furred 
collar close together beneath her chin, tilted her 
face upwards, and kissed her on the mouth. 

She was scandalized. That afternoon a great 
hamper of tea-roses came from him, and a note. 
She read the note, holding it between thumb and 
finger, and then tore it into tiny pieces: and with 
flaming face she crammed the roses into the ash- 
barrel, from which they were presently rescued by 
the more appreciative cook. She wanted to tell 
George what had happened, but he did not come 
home to dinner that night, and as she lay waiting for 
him, hearing the clock strike eleven and twelve, she 
decided, with a distinct feeling of relief, that she 
had no right to purchase her own peace of mind at 
the cost of his. Still later, for she found it hard 
to sleep that night, she thought: 

“Perhaps Pm being silly—after all, what’s a 
kiss? I suppose in Paris everybody’s getting kissed 
all the time. Perhaps Fm being prim and babyish. 
Anyway, he couldn’t have apologized more wonder¬ 
fully than he did in that note—and all those 
roses-” 

She thought, deep in her heart, ashamed: 

“Of course Fm not^ but George thinks Fm beauti¬ 
ful—and Don thought so—and Hugo thinks so— 
perhaps he couldn’t help it.” 

She decided to be broad-minded, a woman of 



266 A Pocketful of Poses 

the great world. She would let him see that what 
he had done had not shocked her as much as it |;^ad 
bored her. She graciously permitted a penitent 
Hugo to come to tea one afternoon—an occasion 
that went off with almost disappointing propriety. 

After that, he fell into the way of coming and 
going almost like one of the family. George no- 
longer had to urge her to be tolerant towards him. 
She cared nothing for him, but she grew to depend 
on the stimulating vision of herself as seen by him. 

She was happy that winter, although she had her 
days of depression. George had never been more 
busy, and if it had not been for Hugo, she would 
have been much alone. Sometimes her thoughts 
turned to Donald, wherever he was—under the 
pine-needles and periwinkle of the grave-yard, or 
in God’s tall town of the golden streets. Occa¬ 
sionally something brought him, idealized, back to* 
her heart with aching intensity—snow falling in 
white veils on a white earth, a poem about first, 
lost loves calling out of the past, or George’s failure 
to remark on some such surprise as duck for dinner, 
or a new lamp-shade. Now and then she feared 
that George no longer loved her: as, for instance, 
when after a hearty tea, she felt rather wan, and 
barely touched her dinner: George could not have 
known about all the currant buns she had eaten, 
and yet he seemed not in the least worried at her 
lack of appetite. And sometimes he behaved, she* 


Posing for Hugo 267 

thought, rather too much like a husband; which 
meant that he considered the household bills a bit 
too high, or the breakfast eggs a bit too mature. 
But these moments were no more than the shadows 
of fair-weather clouds, flying over sunny fields. 

Mrs. Boynton, who had forgiven the Bellamys to 
a distracting extent, thought that Marigold was 
being seen too often with Hugo Curry. People 
met them riding through lonely lanes, or caught 
sight of them in Hugo’s motor, behind his chauffeur 
and footman in their dark blue livery. She had 
been to lunch one day, when there were grapes 
almost as large as eggs, and Marigold had shown 
no shame whatever about saying that they came 
from Hugo’s hothouses. Once, going to call, she 
had happened on Mr. Curry sitting on the floor 
reading poetry aloud: and on that occasion she had 
noticed quantities of red and yellow carnations 
about the living-room, of a sort that Mr. McGrath 
did not keep in his shop, for she had made it a 
point to go in and ask, just as if she wanted them 
for herself, on her way home. In fact, Mr. Mc¬ 
Grath said Mrs. Bellamy had very seldom bought 
anything from him, except some hyacinth bulbs 
and glasses: so Mrs. Boynton was forced to suppose 
that the carnations came from the same place that 
the grapes did. 

“You ought to speak to her, Eva,” Mrs. Marshall 
said to Mrs. Boynton. ‘We all know there’s noth- 


268 


A Pocketful of Poses 

ing in it, but any one who didn’t know the little lady 
as well as we do would wonder^ to say the v<^ry 
least! Dorothy says Walter says he can’t imagine 
a red-blooded man’s man, like Dr. Bellamy, letting 
it go on, right under his nose! Of course that’s 
always the way! My Mona said the other day 
that the Bellamy’s laundress (she’s Mona’s cousin) 
said their waitress told her he was there morning, 
noon, and night. ‘Laws, chile,’ Mona said to me— 
you know her way of talking, real old Southern 
style—‘Laws, Mis’ Marshall, honey, gwine to be 
trouble in dat direction if white folkses is anything 
like black folkses.’ Just think of its being so notice¬ 
able that a poor ignorant coloured girl sees it! You 
ought to speak to her, Eva; you were just the same 
as a mother to her for so long!” 

“It helps me bear it, Carrie, to think my boy was 
spared this.” 

“My, yes, dear! You couldn’t have stood that, 
with your loyal nature! But you speak to her, or 
to Dr. Bellamy. It would be the act of a true 
friend to tell them the truth, no matter how much 
it hurts. I know if I was getting myself talked 
about. I’d thank any one to tell me.” 

Mrs. Boynton said she would think about it. 

Miss Messie and Miss Battie Hall heard whis¬ 
pers, and were talking them over together, shocked 
and excited, when George came in one afternoon 
to see Miss Battie, who was afraid she was getting 


269 


Posing for Hugo 

a quinsy sore throat. He wondered why they looked 
so guilty, and why their little faces turned so bright 
a pink. 

“ril bet you were talking scandal about me!” 
he said, to make them laugh: at which, to his aston¬ 
ishment, Miss Battie burst into tears. She loved 
George, and never forgot that when he was a little 
boy, once when she hurt her back and had to lie on 
the sofa for weeks, he used to come to see her almost 
every day, bringing his books to lend her. He had 
lent her, “Frank on a Gunboat”, and “The Young 
Defenders”, and “Toby Tyler, or Ten Weeks with 
the Circus”, and she had found them quite invigo¬ 
rating. He had brought her all the asters from his 
own garden, too, squeezed tightly together, with 
very short stems; he had brought her a small bag 
of sugar hearts, pink and white and yellow, with 
“Kiss me. Dear”, and “Don’t be Shy”, and like 
amorous instructions, printed on them in red. She 
could not bear to think of unhappiness coming to 
him, or of unfriendly tongues talking of his affairs. 

“My dear, I have the most amusing news for 
you!” Hugo announced to Marigold one day. 
“We’re being talked about—yes, you and I. Really 
talked about—isn’t it heavenly? Perhaps now Aunt 
will put us in her book. She always scorned us for 
being too proper before.” 


270 


A Pocketful of Poses 

“I love it!” Marigold answered. “I can’t wait 
to tell George. Hugo, who told you?” ,, 

“Aunt. She’s so pleased. That Mrs. Juliet Jiggi- 
wig creature came to call—you know the one I 
mean?” 

“Yes, I know. I can’t remember her name, but 
the one who lectures on looking into the heart of a 
lily and saying ‘Peace, Peace!’ ” 

“She said a jolly lot more than ‘Peace, Peace’ this 
time. She had that fearful Marshall woman with 
her, and they told Aunt that while of course they 
knew we were pure as the lilies-” 

“Peace, Peace!” 

“Yet they felt that I should be told—and you 
should be told—and George should be told—oh, all 
manner of things! Being so pure, I blush at the 
thought of them. But Aunt was charmed, and, I 
gather, gave them to understand that we were lead¬ 
ing lives of scarlet sin.” 

Marigold laughed, but she felt rather troubled. 
Hugo, always sensitive to her moods, said: 

“It doesn’t amuse you, really, does it? I’m sorry. 
Shall I stop away? But it’s all such nonsense! 
Shall I tell Jiggiwig and Marshall the truth? Shall 
I go to them, and say: ‘Mesdames, unfortunately 
your suppositions are incorrect. While I am madly 
in love with Mrs. Bellamy, the lady spurns my pas¬ 
sion’ ?” 



Posing for Hugo 271 

“Yes, do. That would make everything all 
right.” 

“And it has the advantage of being true.” 

She smiled, slightly embarrassed. Hugo re¬ 
peated : 

“Marigold, you know it’s true. It’s been true 
ever since I’ve known you. Poor child, I’m making 
you so uncomfortable. You’re a complex little 
character, aren’t you^ Torn between primness and 
poetry. Speaking of poetry, I’ve brought you that 
new book of poems from London that I said I’d get 
for you—delicious! Vivid and whimsical—listen: 

Brittle and bitter, blue shadows of delicate iris-” 

She did not hear him as he read. She was think¬ 
ing of what he had told her. She must tell George, 
and make him laugh about it. She wondered why 
it was not easier to think of telling George. Before 
she had loved him, it had been easy to tell him any¬ 
thing, everything. Even last summer—but last 
summer there had been nothing to tell except her 
love and her happiness. And now, loving him more 
than ever she had before, she found it difficult to 
think of telling him that people were talking about 
her—even although they were absurd people, like 
Mrs. Juliet Jiggiwig. Talking about her, and 
coupling her name with Hugo Curry’s. 

George would understand: he would not fail her. 
But had she failed him^? Of course she had done 


272 A Pocketful of Poses 

nothing wrong, but had she been quite honest? 
With hot cheeks, she admitted to herself that she 
had let Hugo believe, at times, that she was not 
quite happy with her husband. She had never really 
said it—but a look, a gesture, an unspoken word, 
had made for him a picture of herself, lovely and 
lonely, not completely understood, not completely 
appreciated, but facing life with high courage and 
splendid loyalty. Loyalty! She felt sick at the 
thought of what her loyalty had been to the one in 
all the world she loved, her husband, who was her 
friend and her lover. She felt that she had be¬ 
trayed him just to make herself more interesting 
to another man. She had not even the excuse of 
caring for Hugo. It was not worth it. She would 
stop seeing so much of him, and show him by her 
manner that she was no longer amused by their 
graceful little game. 

For a few days she did not see him except when 
George was with them. Then she decided that she 
had been exaggerating the importance of the whole 
affair. Hugo was going back to Paris in the spring, 
and meanwhile she could not bear to hurt him by 
showing him too plainly that she wanted no more 
of his company. 

As for Hugo’s feelings, they had become more 
involved than he found altogether convenient. He 
had not meant to grow so fond of Marigold. He 
preferred affairs with married women because they 



273 


Posing for Hugo 

had not anxious mothers who instantly looked on 
him as a possible son-in-law, but he never went too 
far. He was always nobly renunciatory before their 
husbands became inconveniently annoyed, or before 
their own thoughts fastened too firmly on the image 
of themselves reaching his houses, his yacht, his mo¬ 
tors, and himself, via the divorce courts. But Mari¬ 
gold was unlike the rest. She touched something 
deeper in him, she troubled him. He tried to define 
her charm to himself; she was changeful; she never 
bored him. Sometimes she was all woman, alluring 
and questioning. Eve, with the apple red in her hand; 
sometimes she was as cool and aloof and young as a 
child in the nursery. “A passion-flower in a pina¬ 
fore,” he said to himself, rather liking the phrase. 

He had put off going back to Paris in order to be 
near her; but now it was time to go. She was grow¬ 
ing more of a pain than a pleasure to him; he, who 
could never bear the thought of a woman living 
in his house, getting powder on his rugs, and talking 
in the morning, found himself wishing that Mari¬ 
gold were free to marry him. He believed that 
she cared for him, although she was so loyal to 
George that she tried to hide her feelings. 

George alone was not torn by this thought and 
that thought. He was completely happy. His work 
filled his days; and, at the end of each day, shining 
and sweet and true, a spring in the desert, a star in 
the sky, was Marigold. 


CHAPTER XX 




SUNDAY NIGHT SUPPER 

S PRING came; slowly at first, with an uncurling 
of furry leaves in sheltered corners, and with 
grass growing green under the melting snow: then, 
suddenly, the violets bloomed beneath the hedge, the 
bare branches of the trees were powered with tiny 
leaves, and the birds were busy looking out sites 
for their nests. Primroses pushed through last 
autumn’s dead leaves, and lay like shafts of pale 
sunshine along the borders. The bulbs that George 
and Marigold had planted burst into bloom; and 
asparagus and strawberries were to be had at the 
green-grocer’s, although they were still expensive. 

Miss Archibald, dropping in to see Marigold, 
found Mr. Banks, in his clerical black, paying a 
call. The conversation turned on the daffodils with 
which the room was alight, and Mr. Banks genteelly 
quoted Wordsworth. 

“The yellow love-children of Spring,” said Miss 

Archibald, briskly. “I didn’t make that up, Oscar 

Wilde did. Too bad he had to say ‘yellow’—sounds 

so jaundiced. Perhaps he didn’t. I may have put 

that in myself. I’m only sure of the love-child part. 

274 



275 


Sunday Night Supper 

Dear Oscar! Rather old-fashioned now, of course, 
but a glorious soul, don’t you agreeShe turned 
to Mr. Banks, who blinked, but remembered that 
a clergyman must be first of all a man of the world. 

''Wonderful creature! So quaint!” Miss Archi¬ 
bald exclaimed enthusiastically, after he had gone. 
“The one finishing touch you need for this room. 
Marigold. It’s so Victorian, anyway, with its 
high ceilings and crimson curtains, and the marble 
fireplace, and the candelabra prisms, and those 
pantaletted paintings—and then^ to have a calling 
clergyman! Just the right dark touch —too bad 
you can’t have him stuffed, and keep him here! 
Why don’t you have a waxwork one made? You 
could even have a dean, with gaiters—sitting right 
where he sat, with a cup in one hand and a muffin 
in the other. Do! But I didn’t come to talk 
interior decoration—I came on business. My dear, 
have you any particular use for the dandelion 
plants on your lawn?” 

“I certainly haven’t.” 

“May I have them?” 

“Of course you may. Going to make dandelion 
wine again?” 

''Much more than that. I’ve had an inspiration. 
Don’t tell Hugo, but I’m going to turn the lodge 
into a tea-house! Not like ordinary tea-houses—no 
everlasting old blue-birds and cinnamon toast. 
Dandelions are to be our specialty. In the first 





276 A Pocketful of Poses 

place, Fm going to set out hundreds of plants in the 
lawn—it will be a regular knock-out blaze of glory! 
Nothing’s prettier than a dandelion. Then Fll have 
a sign out—‘The Dent du Lion Tea House’, or, ‘The 
Little Hostel of the Dent du Lion’. Too bad Hugo 
won’t have time to paint it for me free before he 
sails: however, he’d probably make some silly objec¬ 
tion to the whole scheme, so I won’t bother him. 
Then, my dear, dandelion wine and boiled dande¬ 
lion greens the speciality of the place. Nohody 
eats enough boiled dandelion greens—they’re fear¬ 
fully rich in something, Fve forgotten just what 
for the moment, but anyway, boiled greens instead 
of anything dainty. Dainty food! Rubadubdub! 
The cost would be nothing—water and salt, and I 
could live on what was left over. Of course, Fd 
have to have some other things, I suppose, but not 
many. I shall dress in dandelion yellow—silk 
fringe, with a green sash. Hasn’t the idea the most 
astonishing possibilities*? And then you wouldn’t 
mind popping over to be hostess on the days I 
didn’t feel up to it, or wanted to write. I dare 
say it would be quite a help to my writing, in 
the way of giving me fresh characters to study. 
It can’t help making heaps of money—I forgot 
to say it’s to be for the benefit of the Socialist Party. 
Needn’t mention that to Hugo—he’s apt to go off 
half-cocked. So I may tell William to save me 
your dandelions^” 




277 


Sunday Night Supper 

“When will you begin?” 

“Next week^ when Hugo’s gone. Mind you don’t 
give me away.” 

Hugo was to leave on Monday, and on Sunday 
night he and his aunt were to take supper with the 
Bellamys. On Sunday afternoon Marigold lay in 
her hammock under the apple-trees that stood deep 
in bright fine grass, tufted here and there with 
darker blades. Grotesque patterns of grey mould 
clung to the trunks of the twisted trees, and the 
branches were covered with clusters of frail petals. 
Near her, George reclined, looped strangely in an 
old steamer chair. He had added holiday touches 
to his costume—a cricket blazer striped in black 
and green, and a pair of aged dancing pumps. She 
looked at him with a heart aching with love, and, 
as if she had spoken his name aloud, his eyes an¬ 
swered hers. 

“Rather swish, what?” he inquired. “I speak 
English, my child, because I’m vibrating to my 
blazer. But it is swish, isn’t it?” 

“What is?” 

“Everything. You looking so pretty with all 
those petals in your hair, and me looking so hand¬ 
some with my blazer-” 

''And your pumps! Wherever did you get them, 
George? They look like the ones you find on 

beaches, with seaweed and crabs, only I never knew 
they came two at a time.” 




278 


A Pocketful of Poses 

'‘Very handsome slippers/’ said George, regard¬ 
ing them. “You’re quite right, Marigold, fine old 
antiques like these are difficult to find in pairs. Oh, 
what a peach of a day! Let’s take our supper and 
go off in the car, shall we?” 

“I’d love to, but we can’t. Miss Archibald and 
Hugo are coming, you know.” 

“Oh, Lord! So they are. I’ll be glad when he’s 
gone—he’s always here. I never seem to have you 
to myself any more. You’ve been a lamb about 
being decent to him, darling, but I never thought 
he’d hang around so when I asked you to try to put 
up with him.” 

“Never mind, he’s off to-morrow. George-” 

“Yes, dear?” 

“Nothing—only I love you.” 

He got up, shedding Sunday papers, and came to 
her side. 

“And I love you, my precious. Gosh, how I love 

you! I can’t tell you-. We’re close together, 

aren’t we?” 

“We are—oh, we are!” 

“People in general are so rotten—I feel some¬ 
times as if I couldn’t trust any one. I get awfully 
down in the mouth—but then there’s always you. 

I think about you, and it keeps me going. You 
don’t know what you mean to me-” 

She slid from the hammock, and sat on the grass. 
George lay with his head in her lap; tremulous 






Sunday Night Supper 279 

petals floated down on them, and an occasional in¬ 
sect walked^ ticklingly over George’s face, calling 
forth despairing cries. Other cries presently joined 
these, as Katie the maid summoned Marigold to 
the telephone by the simple method of standing 
at the kitchen door and screaming until she came. 

‘‘Guess who this is!” said a voice over the wire. 

“Queen Mary,” Marigold guessed. 

“Pardon? I didn’t catch that.” 

“I’m sorry—it’s so stupid of me—but I’m afraid 
I don’t know.” 

“Well, it’s been a long time since you heard me 
—it’s Ada Dunham speaking—Ada Dunham 
Thompson, I should say. Mr. Thompson and my¬ 
self were passing through on an auto trip, and we 
just felt we couldn^t go by without a peep at you, 
and we thought if you were going to be home this 
evening we’d just look in and say how do, but you 
must be very very frank with us and tell us if you 
were planning to go out, because we wouldn’t upset 
any plans for the worlds but we just have this one 
evening here, the friends we are with, the Bakers, 

I don’t believe you ever met them, they want to get 
on to Shelton Falls to-night, so I said to Mr. Thomp¬ 
son, I’m going to ring up Mrs. Bellamy and see if 
she and her good husband are going to be home 

this evening-” 

Marigold thought: “Oh, dear! I must ask them 
to supper—of all nights in the year!” She had 




280 A Pocketful of Poses 

been so anxious to make one last impression on 
Hugo Curry. Hugo and Kenneth! But she said 
warmly: 

“Mrs. Thompson! How wonderful! Of course 
we will be at home, and you and your husband must 
come to supper.” 

“That’s very very sweet of you—just a moment 
while I ask Mr. Thompson.” Marigold could hear 
the ghost of a voice saying: “She says can we come 
to supper; why, yes, I guess so, I’ll ask her.” Then 
the voice, loud again. “Mr. Thompson hasn’t his 
Tuxedo, he says would it be all right if he wore 
his grey suit? Well, that would be lovely, because 
the Bakers have relatives here, the W. P. Huttons 
on Woodland Street, you probably know them, that 
asked them to supper, so they thought we would 
start for Shelton Falls about ten, it’s only about 
three-quarters of an hour’s run, so that would give 
us time for a nice little visit with you-” 

She ended on an arch note: “Well, if you’re 
posilutely sure we won’t be keeping you from any¬ 
thing, we’d love to come.” 

Marigold, depressed, went to the kitchen to break 
the news of extra guests to an already despondent 
cook, and then helped Katie to change the dining- 
table. Everything was for Hugo to-night—the 
candles; the flowers; the fruit that she had arranged 
like a tail-piece to a Victorian story; the finger- 
bowls, each of different coloured glass, purple and 



281 


Sunday Night Supper 

amber, crimson and meadow-green. She wanted to 
make a gesture of farewell that Hugo would re¬ 
member through the years. She wanted a dark and 
dignified background of old things and gentle ways, 
and herself shining against it, very young and ten¬ 
der. As she dressed for dinner she tried on various 
expressions for him before her mirror: naive gaiety; 
gentle sympathy; twinkling mischief; a look that 
was a little wistful and lonely. She liked that best. 
Watching the curve of her cheek with the help of 
her hand-glass, she talked with animation to an 
imaginary Kenneth, and saw what Hugo would see 
as he sat beside her. Curve of soft cheek, fall of 
bright hair, sweep of dark lashes; it was quite satis¬ 
factory. 

George was practicing putts on the hearth-rug 
when she went down to the drawing-room a few 
minutes before supper time; and Hugo was im¬ 
provising at the piano. As she paused in the door¬ 
way, George called out: ‘‘Here she is! Here she 
is, looking like a million dollars in her little shiny 
dress!” and Hugo, kissing her hand, asked: “What 
is your name to-night, Moon-Light or Moth- 
Wing^” With such greetings, it was difficult to 
keep from looking complacent. 

“Aunt will be here soon; I left her starting with 
one of the footmen. Her new embroidery frame 
came yesterday, and she is bringing it with her. I 
came early with some marvelous strawberries for 


282 A Pocketful of Poses 

you—Fve taken them out and given them to Cook 
myself. She tells me we’re to have cheese souffle, 
so don’t dream of waiting for Aunt.” 

“Two other people are coming, a Mrs. Thompson, 
who used to teach school with me a hundred years 
ago, and her husband.” 

“Good Lord, Marigold, why do we have to have 
them*? How annoying! We were perfect as it 
was—you for beauty, George for brains. Aunt for 
absurdity, and I for appreciation—why any one 
else?’ 

George, who had been complaining to Marigold 
along the same lines, instantly became a warm cham¬ 
pion of the Thompsons. 

Weaving his melodies at the piano, Hugo talked 
to himself and them. 

“Really, this room is rather nice. It has a some¬ 
thing—the white walls—the long red curtains— 
and the shadows. You’ve done the flowers charm¬ 
ingly, Princess. Those ruby glasses on the mantel¬ 
piece with the pale rose and creamy yellow tulips 
and the blue hyacinths—I couldn’t have arranged 
them better myself. I like your room to-night.” 

“How fortunate,” said George mildly, as he 
made an imaginary approach shot. 

Mr. and Mrs. Thompson were announced, and 
hurried in, the lady bursting with apologies. 

“Miss Trent! Mercy, listen to me! Mrs. Bel¬ 
lamy, I mean, but it was Miss Trent for so 


283 


Sunday Night Supper 

long -! You must excuse us for being late, but 

the Bakers brought us, and Mr. Baker would have 
it that you turned left at the pond, although Mr. 
Thompson told him you said turn rights but when 
it isn’t your own auto you feel sort of delicate 
about insisting -” 

‘‘You’ve not kept us waiting at all; another of 
our guests hasn’t come yet.” 

“Oh, Mrs. Bellamy, you never told us it was a 
dinner-party, and Mr. Thompson in his business 
suit!” 

“I wouldn’t mind if he’d come in his bathing- 
suit, I wanted you both so much,” said Marigold 
politely. Mr. Thompson looked prim, and ad¬ 
justed his pince-nez. He hoped it was not going to 
be a fast party. 

“I’m very very glad to meet you. Doctor!” Ada 
was assuring George. “I almost feel as if I know 
you already, Mrs. Bellamy and I are such old 
friends! My, what times we used to have together 
with the kiddies! And then I was hearing about 
you just this afternoon—did your ears burn? I 
was telling Mrs. Bellamy over the phone, she may 
have told you, that our friends the Bakers have 
relatives here, the W. P. Huttons on Woodland 
Avenue-” 

“Street,” corrected Kenneth, from the midst of 
conversation with Marigold. 






284 A Pocketful of Poses 

“Pardon, dear?” 

“Woodland Street, not Avenue.” 

“Oh, yes. Street—let's see, what was I saying? 
Isn't that funny! My mind must be going! It's 
just on the tip of my tongue-'' 

George, who had not been listening, looked bright, 
but not particularly helpful. 

“Oh, I know, the Huttons—they were so inter¬ 
ested to hear that we were coming to supper with 
you—I think they said they didn't know you 
personally, but that Mrs. Hutton's aunt was a pa¬ 
tient of yours, though I don't recall the name just 
this minute—perhaps Mr. Thompson will. Dear 
—pardon me, Mrs. Bellamy—do you remember the 
name of Mrs. Hutton's aunt that they said was a 
patient of Dr. Bellamy’s? Oh, yes, McClung, Miss 
McClung. Really, it's quite funny, isn't it, how 
you can almost always find a mutual friend?” 

“I implore you not to wait for Aunt any longer 
—she is too absurd!” Hugo broke in; but, as he 
spoke, a hearty voice shouted: “Speaking of 
angels!” and Miss Archibald came through one of 
the open French windows: behind her the light fell 
on an enormous embroidery frame which partly hid 
a purple and perspiring footman. 

“Try it sideways, Alfred, you can get it in easily. 
My dears, we've been stuck in the hedge for hours, 
and only just struggled free—didn’t you hear us 
screaming in the starlight? I left most of my clothes 





285 


Su7iday Night Supper 

behind me, and my hair is full of twigs and birds- 
nests—never mind, who caresMarigold, you must 
take up embroidery, too! I’m never going to do 
anything else again. I’m going to start an arras 
this evening with a design of all the illicit loves 
of the past—do all see if you can’t think of some 
that I’ve forgotten.” 

Mr. Thompson seemed about to swoon. 

Marigold looked around the table as they sat at 
supper—prim Kenneth, eating his asparagus so 
genteely, and prim Ada in her dark blue dress, 
quirking out her little finger as she raised her glass 
—Miss Archibald, with her wild grey hair full of 
intentional pansies and unintentional bits of hedge 
—Hugo, immaculate and exquisite, his face white 
between the black of his stock and the burnished 
black of his hair. 

And George. 

Her eyes met his for an instant, and there flashed 
between them a look of love and laughter and un¬ 
derstanding, bright as a banner in the sun. He 
and she! Forever and ever! 

She realized that Mr. Thompson was ending a 
long, mild monologue, and applied herself to listen¬ 
ing, and to making interested comments. Hugo, 
on her left, murmured: 

‘‘Ever the perfect hostess! Marigold, what a 
little fraud you are!” 

“I’m not.” 



286 


A Pocketful of Poses 

“You’re a sweet little fraud, at any rate—do 
you know how enchantingly pretty you are to-night? 
Nobody knows it better, I fancy. There’s a tendril 
of hair that curls up on your cheek—my fingers ache 
to tuck it back. If I did, would it shock the lady 
next me?” 

The moment held them in a curious intimacy, 
seeing the others, but apart from them, as if they 
were enclosed in a crystal globe, until Ada Thomp¬ 
son’s voice broke through: 

“I was just talking about golf with your good 
husband, Mrs. Bellamy; and it reminded me of 
such a good thing Mr. Thompson said the other 
day—tell them, Kenneth, you know, what you said 
to Mr. Clark.” 

“I don’t just place what you are referring to, 
Ada.” 

“Oh, yes, dear, you remember, you told me about 
it afterwards, and I thought it was so good—you 
know, about it’s seeming foolish to chase a little 
quinine pill-” 

“Oh, that! Well, it really wasn’t much of any¬ 
thing,” said Mr. Thompson modestly. “I just hap¬ 
pened to be talking with Mr. Clark, H. J. Clark, 
of Clark and White, you may be acquainted with 
him. Doctor—and he was urging me to take up golf; 
so when he was all through talking I simply 
said-” 

“Very very quietly—” put in Ada, beaming. 




287 


Sunday Night Supper 

“That to me it seemed a foolish waste of time 
to chase round after a little quinine pill over a ten 
acre lot all day. It didn’t seem to leave him any¬ 
thing to say.” 

“And the cream of the joke is that Mr. Thomp¬ 
son didn’t know at the time that Mr. Clark was 
president of the Wee Burnie Golf Club-” 

“A Scotch name,” explained Mr. Thompson, 
helping himself sparingly to strawberries. Ada 
gave a warning cry. 

“Oh, Kenneth I I know Mrs. Bellamy will ex¬ 
cuse you if you don’t eat any berries! Pardon me, 
Mr. Curry, I didn’t mean to make you jump, but I 
was so afraid Mr. Thompson would eat some berries 
unless I spoke quickly, he has such a strong sense 
of politeness, and I knew what that would mean— 
he has to be very very careful! Mr. Thompson 
likes strawberries, but strawberries don’t like him.” 

Hugo looked as if he were at one with the straw¬ 
berries, as Ada went on to give him a list of those 
foods which Mr. Thompson could not eat with 
safety, but Miss Archibald was deeply interested. 

“You ought to try standing on your head, Mr. 
Johnson,” she advised. “It’s the greatest comfort, 
a complete change mentally and physically. All 
the Hindus do it. You take my advice—drink a 
glass of buttermilk, and then stand on your head 
five minutes, night and morning, and you won’t 
know you’re the same person.” 



288 A Pocketful of Poses 

In the drawing-room Miss Archibald settled to 
her embroidery, explaining that she was goin^ to 
make it up out of her head as she went along. “I 
can’t be bothered by any set plan—did you ever 
know embroidery frames kicked about so? I think 
that fool of an Alfred did something to this one, I 
could see plainly that he’d taken a dislike to it. 
Don’t expect me to hear or speak until I get this 
started. Put my coffee where I can gulp it down 
if I have a moment—what’s the liqueur? Creme 
de menthe? Haven’t you anything stronger? Bring 
me a glass of whatever the gentlemen are having, 
Katie. Now nobody speak to me until I say they 
may.” She became enmeshed in a tangle of silks. 

‘‘No coffee, thanks, I wouldn’t sleep a wink— 
no, I don’t smoke, Mr. Thompson doesn’t like it— 
not that he isn’t broad-minded, but he’s just very 
fastidious—he always says it’s all right for other 
women to smoke, but he wouldn’t want to see his 
wife or his mother doing it, and I think really it’s 
a very lovely feeling. Well, now, I want to hear all 
about what you’ve been doing—I certainly was sur¬ 
prised to hear you were married—I just could hardly 
believe it! I’m ever so anxious to hear all about 
your wedding—the paper didn’t give any details. 
I suppose it was very artistic. I said to Miss Hop¬ 
per, ‘I just know Miss Trent’s wedding was simple 
and artistic, with all her taste.’ I think simple wed¬ 
dings are really the sweetest, don’t you? Ours was 




289 


Sunday Night Supper 

very very simple, just relatives and intimate friends. 
I had a white net dress over white silk, and Edna 
Brown, she was my maid of honour, you know, she 
was in pink. Oh, yes, and little Mary Louise Huff, 
Mr. Thompson’s little niece, was flower-girl in pale 
blue—she looked just like a little fairy! I always 
think pink and blue is such a dainty colour scheme, 
don’t you*? I don’t know whether you’re in¬ 
terested- 

“Indeed I am!” 

“Well, the decorations were very simple—I think 
that’s always more dignified, don’t you? Mamma 
had a lot of Boston ferns already, and we borrowed 
some more, and banked them round the bay window, 
and then Dr. Hass stood there to perform the cere¬ 
mony. Oh, yes, and just before we came in, Mrs. 
Huff, little Mary Louise’s mother, sang, T Love 
You Truly’- Mercy, Mrs. Bellamy, you’ve got me 
feeling like a bride again, and I an old married 
woman with a kiddie nearly two years old!” 

“Tell me about your little boy. I don’t even 
know his name.” 

“Well, we had quite a time about that. His 
father thought Peregrine would be nice, after that 
baby that was born on the Mayflower, you know, 
you so seldom hear that name nowadays, and it 
appeals to Mr. Thompson on account of his love 
for antiques; but Papa took a dislike to it, and 
kept saying it put him in mind of some kind of salt 



290 A Pocketful of Poses 

fish; and even though it turned out it was kedgeree 
he was thinking of, it sort of spoiled the idea^for 
us. Well, then we thought of Junior, but that’s 
so mixing, don’t you think so? And I thought of 
Fletcher, for Papa, only Mr. Thompson was feel¬ 
ing a little bit hurt still on account of Papa’s making 
such fun of Peregrine—and there was Warren, for 
Father Thompson, but that would have hurt Papa’s 
feelings, so we finally decided on Dunham—I think 
Dunham Thompson makes a dignified combination, 
don’t you? Not that he gets it very often, his daddy 
always speaks of him as ‘the boy’, and Mama and 
Mother Thompson never call him anything but 
‘Baby’. You never met Mother Thompson, did 
you, Mrs. Bellamy? Pm just devoted to her, she’s 
the most exquisite little old lady, very like Kenneth, 
with a face just like a cameo-” 

“How gruesome!” boomed Miss Archibald unex¬ 
pectedly. “Has she had anything done about it? 
Or does she exhibit herself? Here come the men 
—do tell them about it. Listen, all of you! Mrs. 
Thompson is telling us the most revoltingly fasci¬ 
nating tale about a woman she knows with a face 
like a camel!” 

Kenneth gazed aghast at his Ada; he had seen 
her down-turned wine-glass at supper, but could she 
have forgotten herself with the liqueurs? He wished 
that the Bakers would come: he was ready to go, 
particularly as Dr. Bellamy, who seemed the only 




291 


Sunday Night Supper 

entirely sane person present, came back from a 
telephone call to say that he had been sent for by 
a patient, and must leave them. He set himself 
to grim endurance of the rest of the evening, until 
his wife’s audible wonderings as to what could be 
keeping the Bakers so long were answered by the 
tooting of their motor-horn at the door. 

'‘I loved your little man, Marigold,” said Miss 
Archibald, after the Thompsons had gone. “Be¬ 
cause it was plain to be seen that I thrilled him, and 
it’s been so long since I’ve caused any one to thrill 
—except your footman to-night, Hugo, I caused him 
to thrill with horror! I’m going now—such stars 
you never saw! I’m going to tramp under them for 
miles, and probably lie on an open hill-top, a la belle 
etoile^ if the insects aren’t too bad.” 

“Not in a lace tea-gown!” 

“Certainly—I have on walking boots, and I turn 
up the tail of my dress for a shawl. It’s as warm 
as toast to-night, anyway. I can’t face another 
struggle with that embroidery frame, Hugo—you 
just bring it when you come, and drop it at the 
lodge, will you^?” 

“Certainly not, I shouldn’t dream of doing such 
a thing,” Hugo called after his aunt’s retreating 
form. Then he came back to where Marigold was 
sitting. 




CHAPTER XXI 


•« 


TELLING THE TRUTH TO GEORGE 

M arigold wished that Hugo had gone, too, 
or that George would come home. She was 
tired, and just a bit apprehensive of Hugo’s fare¬ 
wells. But he seemed quite safe and natural as he 
sat down beside her on the big sofa. 

“Oh, Marigold, what a fearful party—cigarette? 
That obscene woman who insisted on telling me all 
about her husband’s entrails, and yet had the effron¬ 
tery to look shocked when I called her ‘my dear’ 
—inadvertently, I need not add. And Aunt with 
red and purple embroidery silk hanging out of the 
corners of her mouth, like a mandarin’s moustache. 
No wonder you look exhausted. You’re as white as 
a little ghost. Don’t talk, just rest. Shall I play 
to you?” He went over to the piano, and began 
to play an air full of passionate melancholy, and 
presently sang to it: 

“ ‘Dejame, memoria triste, 

No me estas atormentando 
Se la quise o no la quise, 

Nina de mi corazon —’ ” 


292 



Telling the Truth to George 293 

“What does it mean?” asked Marigold oblig¬ 
ingly. 

“It’s a Petenera—a Spanish gypsy song, very 
old. There are English words—I’ll sing them to 
you.” 

She thought .to herself: “That’s Hugo all over! 
Singing Spanish folk-songs! I wish just for once 
he’d sing ‘Alimony Blues’ or ‘Mammy’, but I sup¬ 
pose it would kill him.” She got up, and went out 
on the porch. The air was drenched with the scent 
of lilacs, and the sky was powdered with stars. She 
wished, idly, that Hugo would go, and George 
would come home. She wanted to laugh over the 
ridiculous supper party with him. Running beneath 
the surface of her thoughts was the consciousness of 
how she must look to Hugo through the French win¬ 
dow: shining faintly in lamplight and starlight 
against the dark background of pine-trees and night. 

He was singing: 

“ ‘Leave me, memory of sorrow, 

Come not, torturing me sore; 

Whether once, or not, I loved her, 

( Child and darling of my heart!) 

Whether once, or not, I loved her. 

Do not thou remind me more.’ ” * 

Softly singing, “ 'Nina de mi corazon^ ” he came 
out, and sat beside her on the broad railing of the 

♦ From ‘‘Spanish and Italian Folk-Songs,” translated by Alma 
Strettell. 


294 


A Pocketful of Poses 

porch, picking up a silvery ribbon of her gown, 
and running it through his fingers. 

“What stars! Look at them through the pine- 
branches. To-morrow I’ll be gone—miss me a lit¬ 
tle, Marigold.” 

“Indeed I will, Hugo—we both will.” 

“ ‘We both will!’ Even your thoughts of me 
must be chaperoned by George!” 

He bent his head, watching the shining ribbon 
that slipped through his fingers. 

“When are you coming to Paris, Marigold T’ 

“I don’t know—George is so busy.” 

“Why must you wait for him? Tell him you 
need a change, and come and visit my sister. She’d 
love you, and you and I could play together. We’d 
be two children—we’d do all the innocent heavenly 
things that children are too blase to do—we’d watch 
the puppets—remember Le Petit CuignolP^ 

“Oh, don’t I! With the little red curtains jerk¬ 
ing back!” 

“We’d take a bottle of wine, and a long crusty 
loaf, and picnic in the woods, hidden among the 
ferns.” 

“Oh, Hugo, you at a picnic! I can’t imagine 
that! You hate them.” 

“I hate hard-boiled eggs and paper napkins and 
more than two people— oh, how I hate more than 
two people, anywhere, ever! To-night, for instance 
—ghastly!” 







Telling the Truth to George 295 

“You’re being rude about my party.” 

“I’m being truthful about it. Never mind, it’s 
over, thank God; and now I have you to myself 
for one little hour before we say good-bye.” 

“I’m afraid it mustn’t be even the littlest hour, 
Hugo—I heard your stable clock strike eleven a long 
time ago,” said Marigold primly; but Hugo paid 
no attention to her remark. 

“Come to Paris, Marigold! Think of the little 
boys in their black smocks! Think of the chestnut 
trees in bloom! Think of the scent of wall-flowers! 
Won’t you come?” 

“Hugo, you know I can’t. George can’t get away 
just now, and I couldn’t leave him.” 

“Why not? He wouldn’t miss you much—not 
for one summer. Haven’t I seen how often you’ve 
been left alone? You don’t think for a moment that 
you or any one could really matter to George while 
he has his work, do you? Poor little Marigold!” 

“You mustn’t talk that way, Hugo. I’m a very 
happy woman.” 

“You’re a very gallant liar! Do you think I see 
nothing? I saw the look in your eyes when George 
left you to-night with hardly a word.” 

“Oh, Hugo! That’s George’s way! When he 
speaks to me in front of other people he always acts 
as if he weren’t quite sure whether we’d been intro¬ 
duced or not. 

“I can’t think of you— you, like a flower, like a 




296 


A Pocketful of Poses 

rainbow—settling down to be a country doctor’s 
wife. Settling down. Heavy, heavy. With j^pur 
thistle-down thoughts turning into so many boiled 
puddings-” 

‘‘I’m happy, Hugo. I’m satisfied.” 

Her words were true, but the tone of her voice 
was a farewell to youth, to love, to hope. When 
had Marigold failed to respond to the suggestion 
of interesting unhappinessA rainbow—a flower 
—and the rainbow must fade, the flower must perish. 
Good-bye, oh good-bye! 

The suggestion of boiled puddings was less de¬ 
lightful. 

“Toujours le beau gesteT^ Hugo said. 

She looked at him, through her lashes. She 
thought, with a not altogether unpleasurable feeling 
of panic: 

“Something generally happens when they begin 
to get like that—when they breathe hard through 
their noses and their shirts begin to creak. I’d bet¬ 
ter try to make him go home.” She got up. “I’m 
cold. I’m going in.” 

He caught her hand, and said, in a strange voice 
that she had never heard before: 

“I’d give my life to take you with me.” 

Startled, she tried to pull herself away, but he 
held her fast as his words came pouring out. 

“I love you—do you understand*? I love you. 
I didn’t want to—it’s a damned mess. But I saw 





Telling the Truth to George 297 

how unhappy you were—how lonely—beautiful— 
and you love me—don't you? Don't you?" 

For one astounded moment she broke away from 
him. Could this be Hugo—Hugo, always languor¬ 
ous, calm, tidy in his emotions as in his dress? She 
caught a glimpse of his feet, and thought, incon¬ 
gruously, how neat and small they looked in their 
evening slippers. Then he had her in his arms again, 
and was fastening hard, hot lips on her mouth. 

Mrs. Marshall was taking care of her grand¬ 
children while her daughter and son-in-law were 
in New York for a week, and as she gave them their 
baths that evening, it seemed to her that Junior 
was rather feverish. Also, a slight rash might or 
might not be the indication of something that little 
Sister could catch; so she telephoned Dr. Bellamy 
to come and look him over. 

The rash and the fever proved to be nothing more 
serious than the result of too many sweets, admin¬ 
istered by an indulgent grandmother, and the hot, 
cross little boy was comfortable and sleepy before 
George left him and came downstairs to give a few 
instructions to Mrs. Marshall. 

She did not hear what he was saying as she waited 
for his voice to stop. She had resolved to tell him that 
people were talking about his wife, and her heart 
pounded with excitement. She believed that Mari¬ 
gold had taken Donald Boynton away from her own 




298 A Pocketful of Poses 

daughter Dorothy: she knew that Dorothy had suf¬ 
fered, and now she was going to make Marigold suffer. 

People were apt to describe Mrs. Marshall as 
“motherly-looking”. She always looked smooth and 
bland; her full face was calm beneath bands of 
whitey-yellow hair; her plump smooth hands with 
their big pale freckles, were generally busy mending 
little frocks, or knitting small jackets; her broad 
bosom, swelling smoothly under lace and dark silk, 
looked as if tired heads could rest there. Only her 
eyes, turning this way and that behind blinking lids 
with short whitish lashes, and the tip of her tongue, 
constantly licking her lips, suggested something lurk¬ 
ing behind that smooth, pleasant exterior. In a 
voice like honey she continually denied the most 
scandalous things about her acquaintances—things 
that nobody had ever heard of until they were so 
charitably denied by Mrs. Marshall. Her voice was 
smooth and sweet now, but with a little nervous 
quiver in it, as she said: 

“I know you’re the busiest man in town. Doctor, 
but I wonder if you could spare me just one little 
tiny minute—there’s something that’s been terribly 
on my mind for some time, that you could help me 
about. Come into the sitting-room—don’t step on 
Junior’s little choo-choo, it might give you a bad 
fall! The children’s things are all over —their 
mother says I spoil them, and I guess I do, but what 
else are grandmas good for, I’d like to know?” 





Telling the Timtli to George 299 

She gathered a doll, a cotton rabbit, a muslin 
copy of “Goldilocks and the Three Bears”, and 
parts of a toy tea-set from the Morris-chair, and 
motioned him to it. 

“Til tell you my problem without beating around ' 
the bush. Dr. Bellamy. That’s always the best 
way, after all, isn’t it^? Now, I have a dear little 
friend who’s getting herself terribly talked about. 
She’s a dear, sweet little girl, at heart, with a fine 
splendid husband, and everything to make her 
happy, but she’s going with another man so that 
every one in town is talking. Now / know this 
little girl has a heart of gold, but some others don’t 
know her as well as I do, and you know how people 
just lo-ue to think the worst of any one—it’s a sad 
thing, but they do. Now, what ought I to do? 
Some one ought to be a true enough friend to that 
dear little girl or her husband to tell them how 
things look to people who don’t know her. It’s 
really wrong to let that little thing go on so reck¬ 
lessly. What ought I to do. Doctor?” 

“I’m afraid you’ll have to decide that for your¬ 
self, Mrs. Marshall,” George said, getting up. “If 
it was chicken-pox or a broken leg, perhaps I could 
advise you, but this is beyond me. Sorry. Give 
the little boy the other powder in the morning, and 
let me know if he .doesn’t seem all right.” 

“Doctor—wait! Dr. Bellamy, maybe you think 
that other isn’t any of your business-” 



300 A Pocketful of Poses 

“I know it isn’t.’’ 

‘‘It’s just because I really do love her—and she’s 
so young, and you being so busy, naturally wouldn’t 
see what every one else in town has seen-” 

“Who are you talking about 

He looked dangerous, and Mrs. Marshall felt 
rather frightened as she answered, with a surge of 
perverse pleasure flooding through her fear: 

“Surely you know. Dr. Bellamy—Marigold and 
Mr. Curry.” 

She had gotten up, with a chair between herself 
and him. She hardly knew what he might do— 
throw something, perhaps, or take her by the throat. 
She felt terrified and exultant. He was standing, 
too; he picked up the children’s book from the table 
beside him, and turned over a page or two. It 
struck him that a picture of Goldilocks tasting the 
porridge suggested Marigold—his darling little 
Marigold. 

Throwing the book down, he looked at Mrs. Mar¬ 
shall and laughed. 

“Since you love her so much,” he said, “You’ll 
be glad to hear that there’s nothing in it. Too bad, 
if the town was getting any excitement from it, but 
I’m afraid you must tell your friends that there’s 
nothing in it at all.” 

She looked at him, hating him, her tongue flicker¬ 
ing out to lick her lips. 

“You’re blind. Dr. Bellamy. People have seen 




Telling the Truth to George 301 

them together everywhere—lonely places—coming 
out of the woods towards dark—ask any one!” 

“You’re not worth talking to,” said George. 

He went out, and started for home. The rush of 
air in his face, delicately chill, the great sky, thick 
with stars above him, took away something of the 
smothered feeling he had had in Mrs. Marshall’s 
room. He felt the need of a great bath—hot water, 
brushes, soap—to clean himself of the slime of dirty 
thoughts and whispers: he felt physically filthy from 
having listened to Mrs. Marshall’s suspicions. His 
heart ached with love and tenderness for Marigold: 
he had subjected his own dear girl to this, by urging 
her to be friendly to Hugo, when she had not liked 
him. Now his one thought was to reach her, to 
make up to her by his adoration for the talk that 
she must never hear about. 

Although it was late, the lights of his house shone 
clear and reassuring. She was sitting up for him. 
He leapt from the car, and ran across the lawn and 
up onto the porch. 

Finding Marigold in Hugo’s arms, his life turned 
to ashes. Fighting against the physical sickness that 
threatened to overcome him, he said, hearing his 
own voice far away: 

“That’s about enough.” 

Hugo turned. George said, lurching a little, like 
a drunken man: 



802 


A Pocketful of Poses 

“Get out—get out-!” 

“George—!” said Marigold, in a sick whisper. 

“Go with him if you want to,” he answered. 

“By God, you’re right!” cried Hugo. “Come 
with me, Marigold!” But Marigold did not hear 
him: she was whispering her husband’s name, over 
and over again, desperately: 

“George—George-” 

“Come with me. Marigold. We love each other 
—come with me now, and I’ll make up to you for all 
this.” 

“Oh, Hugo, go away!” she cried hysterically. 
“I wish I’d never seen you! I hate you! George, 
speak to me—George—forgive me—speak to me!” 

Slowly he came up from the depths that had 
roared in his ears and blinded his eyes. Things 
grew clear again. He saw the pine-branches against 
the stars, smelled the lilacs, saw Hugo’s face, saw 
Marigold’s shining dress, and heard her desperate 
voice. He answered politely, trying to remember 
the right words, as if they were lines in a play: 

“There’s nothing to forgive. You’ve always 
known you were free if you stopped loving me. If 
you love him, and if you’re unhappy with me, go 
with him.” 

“No, no, no!” 

George suddenly turned to Hugo. “I told you 
to get out,” he said. 







Telling the Truth to George 303 

“Good God, George, what do you expect? You 
leave a child alone, day after day, you neglect her 
for your work and your damned old book, leave her 
to occupy herself as best she can, never see that 
she’s breaking her heart, and then you’re surprised 
if she turns to some one who realizes that she’s a 
woman, not just a comfortable cushion for you 
when you condescend to bring home what’s left of 
yourself after you’ve spent everything that’s worth 
while. Why should she be happy with a blind man, 
a deaf man, you fool?” 

“Is that true?” George asked Marigold. “Have 
you been unhappy?” 

“No, no^ George, I’ve been perfectly happy.” 

“Marigold, don’t be afraid of him—tell him the 
truth, and then come with me.” 

“George, make him go away,” she wailed. 

“But you were unhappy—you did care for me.” 

“I wasn’t—I didn’t—I was just pretending!” 

Hugo, white to the lips, turned and went down 
the steps and across the lawn. Neither of them 
looked at him as he went. George said to Marigold, 
still in that distant, polite voice: 

“You’d better come indoors. You’ll catch cold 
with your bare neck and arms.” 

He followed her in through the window, locking 
it after them carefully, and then went from win¬ 
dow to window, closing each one, and drawing the 
long red curtains. Marigold watched him as she 




304 


A Pocketful of Poses 

stood in the middle of the floor, her nervous fingers 
tearing the lace of her handkerchief, her lips forr^- 
ing mute words. Finishing the windows, he began 
to put out the lamps, still not looking at her, nor 
speaking. She called to him in agony: 

“Let me tell you how it happened—let me ex¬ 
plain—George, speak to me, or Fll go crazy!’’ 

“I don’t want to talk to-night,” he said: “It’s 
late, and I have a bad day ahead.” 

She clung to his arm, imploring mutely, while 
tears poured down her face and stained her shining 
gown. 

“Please, Marigold. I’m tired, and you’ll make 
yourself sick. Go up and wash your face and go 
to bed.” 

“You must listen—even if I’d killed some one, 
I’d be allowed to speak—you must listen to 
me- 

With a gesture of weariness, he sat down. 

“No matter how things seem, I love you—I’ve 
never stopped for a second, and I never can stop. 
And you’ve made me happy— happy. But what 
happened to-night was my fault. I let Hugo think 
I was unhappy, just to make myself interesting to 
him. I’ve done that all my life—pretended, and 
lied—the only real thing, the only thing that is 
every scrap true, is my love for you. Everything 
else has had pretence mixed in it, but that has been 
all real. Try to believe me, George. I never cared 







Telling the Truth to George 305 

anything for Hugo, and I didn’t really think he 
cared for me until to-night-” 

“Is this the first time he’s kissed you?” 

“No,” she answered, with an effort. 

“When before?” 

“In the autumn.” 

“And you’ve let him hang around ever since 
then?” 

“He never kissed me again until to-night, George. 
I wanted to tell you then, only—oh, I don’t know 
why I didn’t! But I was going to tell you about 
to-night. Truly I was!” 

He turned his head from side to side, as if he 
were in physical pain. Pressing her hands close 
together, she prayed swiftly and silently: 

“God, make me be truthful no matter what hap¬ 
pens.” Aloud, she said: 

“George, if I were sick and weak in my body 
you’d be sorry for me, and help me: but it’s my 
soul. I haven’t been able to help it—since I was 
a child. I used to lie about seeing angels and fairies, 
to make myself interesting. I always had to be 
acting. And I couldn’t hurt people. It wasn’t 
kindness and sweetness, it was just because I 
couldn’t face unpleasantness. Anything to smooth 
things over, and make myself seem lovely. Every¬ 
thing bad that’s ever happened to me has come from 
not being honest. I knew for ages that I didn’t 
love Donald Boynton, but I pretended to him that 





306 A Pocketful of Poses 

I did—I pretended wonderfully. And even when I 
was nearly dying of unhappiness, I used to get some 
pleasure out of looking forward and seeing myself 
as an unhappy wife, adored and unhappy and brave 
—that’s what I’m like, George! Even when my 
posing had killed Don, I was able to think how 
appealing I looked in mourning—I felt people look¬ 
ing at me, and imagined what they were saying. I 
even was able to wish I could wear a widow’s bon¬ 
net, with white crepe around my face—nothing 
touched me, nothing! Nothing was real except that 
I should be an attractive picture. I pretended to 
Mrs. Boynton that I still loved Don—I pretended 
to Hugo that I wasn’t happy—just to be interest¬ 
ing, just to be what people wanted me to be! I 
saw myself with Hugo as if we were two people in a 
novel—it never seemed real for a minute. I 
thought of course he was pretending, too, until to¬ 
night. I meant to tell you a million times about 
his nonsense—and I thought it would make you 
laugh—make you laugh-” 

She broke off, looking at his face and his eyes, 
that looked like the wide open eyes of a blind man. 

‘‘Are you hearing me, George?” she asked, laying 
a timid hand on his arm. 

He got up, letting her hand drop, and began 
pacing up and down the room. Miss Archibald’s 
embroidery frame stood in his way, but instead of 





Telling the Truth to George 307 

pushing it to one side, he carefully avoided it each 
time. 

“Yes, I hear you,’’ he said. 

“I’ve even pretended to God,” she went on. “I 
loved to genuflect and cross myself and all, in 
Church, when people were looking at me, and put 
on expressions when I was praying—oh. I’m sick at 
myself! But I’ve never posed for you, George— 
what you’ve had from me has all been real. I’m 
telling you the truth—I’m stripping myself naked 
for you—you must believe me. I meant to tell you 
about Hugo; I meant to tell you that Mrs. Marshall 
and Mrs. Underhill came to Miss Archibald last 
winter to say people were talking about us. I was 
going to tell you everything to-night, although I 
don’t suppose you believe me, and I don’t know 
why you should. But even if I didn’t tell you. I’ve 
never pretended with you. I’ve loved you utterly. 
If you stop loving me. I’ll die. Tell me you for¬ 
give me.” 

“I’ve told you that there’s nothing to forgive. 
Hugo was right, I left you too much to yourself. 
It isn’t your fault, it’s mine.” 

“No, George, no! You’ve been perfect to me! 
Only say you believe me, and that we’ll be the same 
as before!” 

“Stop crying. Marigold, and go to bed. I’ll be 
up soon.” 

“Will everything be the same as it was before?” 



308 A Pocketful of Poses 

“We’re being two hysterical fools,” he said. 
“What does it matter if Hugo kissed you^ You’re 
not the first woman who’s been kissed by a man 
who wasn’t her husband. I thought you were dif¬ 
ferent. I thought of you as the one perfect soul 
in a rotten world. I thought we were so close to¬ 
gether that we shared every thought and feeling. 
You’ve had all mine, and I’ve had what was com¬ 
fortable for me to have of yours. It’s all right. 
Don’t think about it any more.” 

He lifted her grief-ravaged face, drained by 
despair, and kissed her kindly and quietly on the 
cheek. “Now you must go to bed,” he said. “Stop 
crying—don’t be a baby. Are the dining-room win¬ 
dows locked? All right. I’ll see to them. Please 
go, Marigold.” 

On the stairs she waited, heard him go into the 
dining-room and fasten the windows, heard him 
pour himself out a drink, the decanter clattering 
against the tumbler. If she could only reach him, 
hidden somewhere behind that kind, quiet face and 
those blind eyes. Pressing her hands against her 
mouth to keep from crying, she went down a step 
or two: then, hopelessly, clinging to the stair rail, 
and moving slowly, like an old, old woman, she 
turned, and went upstairs to bed. 



CHAPTER XXII 


POSING FOR MARIGOLD 

S HE lay staring into the darkness, shaken, now 
and then, by storms of weeping. She knew 
that George, too, was lying awake, but he spoke no 
word to comfort her. Into her tired brain, like bits 
of floating gossamer, came words from Hugo’s song: 

“Whether once, or not, I loved her, 

( Child and darling of my heart I') 

Whether once, or not, I loved her—” 

She turned her hot pillow, wet with her tears. 
She thought of that afternoon in the orchard— 
the cold frail petals drifting down—George, his eyes 
in hers, his arms about her, his voice: 

‘T love you^ my precious. We’re close tog ether 
are'n!t we?’^ 

She turned to her other side, pushing down the 
covers with hot hands. 

“Whether once, or not, I loved her, 

Do not thou remind me more.” 

She did not sleep until the sun rose, and the birds 
were calling. 


309 


310 


A Pocketful of Poses 

George did not waken her, as he usually did, but 
she heard him moving about in his dressing-fpom, 
and got up. She called to him timidly, but he did 
not hear. She bathed and dressed, putting on the 
first thing her fingers touched in her closet—a vivid 
frock of cherry-coloured print. She had worn it by 
the sea, and George had loved it against the grey 
of sky and water on dull days. To-day it made 
her face look chalk-white, but for once Marigold 
did not notice how she was looking. 

George was half through breakfast when she came 
downstairs. He said good-moming, and pulled out 
her chair for her. She did not know whether to 
lift her face for his kiss, and while she was decid¬ 
ing, he went back to his place, and began to read 
the paper. 

It was steadying to say good-morning to Katie, to 
pour out George’s coffee, and to give a corner of 
toast to Coco. These were things that belonged to 
every-day, cheerful life. If anything really dread¬ 
ful had happened, they would have stopped. She 
looked through her lashes at George. He had put 
down his paper, and was drinking his coffee; his face 
was still the face of a kind stranger, his eyes were 
covered by lowered lids. His voice, when he pres¬ 
ently spoke to her of one or two unimportant things, 
was reserved, the voice in which she had heard him 
speak to outsiders: no secret understanding rang 


Posing^ for Marigold 311 

“Please ask William to spray the currant-bushes 
to-day, Marigold/’ 

“Yes, George.” 

“I may be late to dinner—don’t wait for me.” 

“All right.” 

He said kindly, kissing her good-bye as he might 
have kissed his aunt: 

“Keep out-of-doors as much as you can—it’s a 
beautiful day.” 

“George-!” 

“Yes? I’m in a hurry. Marigold.” 

She let him go. Turning back into the house, 
she could not believe that everything could still 
look just as it had yesterday. In the hall were 
George’s hats and sticks, and her own big garden 
hat; the great blue and white bowls full of dried 
rose petals, pungent and sweet; and Coco, paws 
delicately crossed, napping in the sunshine. The 
living-room had been set in order, but Miss Archi¬ 
bald’s embroidery frame still occupied the hearth¬ 
rug, and Hugo’s forgotten cigarette-case lay on the 
table. The flowers whose arrangement he had 
praised were fresh in their vases, but she pulled 
them out, with a reckless spatter of water: there 
must be as little as possible to remind George of 
yesterday, when he came home to-night. She went 
down to the orchard to gather boughs of apple-blos¬ 
som—George loved them. The great sky was high 
and shining blue, with dazzling white clouds billow- 



312 A Pocketful of Poses 

ing across it: the wind whipped her bright frock 
about her, and tumbled her silver-gilt hair. Birds 
tossed in the air, shouting their songs, and the apple- 
trees were silver fountains of bloom. 

She had ordered the dishes that George liked best, 
for dinner, gathered little nosegays of violets for 
the finger-bowls, and dressed in his favourite frock, 
after trying to improve the appearance of her 
swollen eyes by applications of ice and hot water; 
so that it was unfortunate that he was detained at 
the hospital, and had only time for milk and biscuit 
there. Katie took the message at the telephone, as 
Dr. Bellamy said it was not necessary to disturb 
Mrs. Bellamy. They had a fine dinner in the 
kitchen that night. 

George was careful not to leave Marigold too 
much alone. He continually planned diversions for 
her, always with other friends. He was kind and 
considerate to her, and as far away from her in 
reality as the other end of the world. Trying to 
feel towards her as if nothing were wrong between 
them, his thoughts were turned to bitterness by drops 
of suspicion. He loved her desperately, but she was 
no longer the shining miracle, the crystal-clear vision 
of truth, that she had been. She felt that she was 
living with a stranger, and he, too, felt that she 
was strange to him. The girl he thought he knew 
so well, his dream come true, was gone—she had 
never been. All the time that he had thought they 


Posing for Marigold 313 

were as truly one as two drops of water that have 
run together, she had been keeping from him an 
affair that had been common knowledge. How 
could he believe her any more? Her eyes had been 
just as clear and steady then as now, her clasp as 
close, her voice as sure. He remembered her say¬ 
ing: “Fm in you, and you’re in me, like the seeds 
in an apple—like the flame in a lamp—only closef 
—we couldn’t be apart ever again, could we?” 

When she talked to him, she felt as if she were 
trying to talk his own language to a polite foreigner, 
who listened courteously, not quite understanding. 
It was as if she spoke fairly well, but never well 
enough to hide the fact that she was a stranger; 
she did not know the idiom. 

She grew, in those days of spiritual loneliness, 
those nights when she lay crying for lost hands in 
the dark. For the first time in her life it was more 
important to Marigold to love than to be loved. 

She suffered more for her husband’s pain than 
for her own. That her beloved was in trouble, and 
she not able to comfort him, was her bitterest grief. 
It seemed to her, young and impatient and despair¬ 
ing, that there was no way out of the muddle she 
had made, as long as they lived. 

As long as they lived! The words stayed in her 
mind, buzzing there like bees. She remembered 
what Hugo had said—that neither she nor anybody 
could really matter to George as long as he had 



314 A Pocketful of Poses 

his work. If she were dead, he could be free again 
to give all of himself to his vocation. She had 
given him happiness, and taken it away again: but 
if she gave him freedom, she could never take back 
her gift. 

There came a day when she walked slowly up 
and down the grass path between the pansies, her 
hands clasped before her, her head bent thought¬ 
fully. It was clear to her that she must kill herself. 
It was the only thing she could do for her darling 
now. She must not wait, and weaken. She must 
.kill herself to-day. 

It was so clear that she felt no pain nor terror, 
nothing but acquiescence. She walked slowly up and 
down: the sun was warm on her bent head: there 
were so many pansies this year; their vivid faces 
printed themselves on her brain; mauve, with a 
white splotch, and a black splotch on that; yellow 
with black whiskers, bright in the sun. 

Up and down, up and down. The beds needed 
weeding; she thought she must speak to William 
to-morrow, and then remembered there would be 
no to-morrow for her. 

Half a split croquet ball lay by the side of the 
path. The stripe on it was white, and along the 
middle of the stripe crawled a lady-bug, like a tiny 
red and black coach traveling along a broad white 
highway. The scent of the sweetbrier came to her 
in warm gusts, and the sound of bells was blown to 


Posing for Marigold 315 

her on the wind. The Church chimes, ringing for 
Sunday School. She must make up her mind how 
she would kill herself. 

It was hard to think. Her brain felt numb. 
Walk up and down the path in the warm sun and 
look at the bright little pansies—the croquet ball 
—a sparrow taking a dust bath—small pale green 
globes in the cherry tree—the blue broken shell of 
a robin’s egg. To-morrow you will be too far away 
to see them. 

Up and down, up and down. 

George must never guess that she had killed her¬ 
self: it must seem like an accident. She made up 
her mind what to do. He had warned her so often 
of the danger of going out too far on the top of the 
high cliffs that hung above the river: the ground 
was treacherous in places. But he knew she some¬ 
times went there with a book. She must take a 
book, and her old hat, and leave them there when 
she went plunging over, so that when they were 
found, George would never guess the truth. She 
would leave an apple, too. Suicides never left 
cheerful things like apples on the shore when they 
entered the dark sea. Her last gift to him must be 
perfect—there must be no tiniest clew to lead him 
to the truth. 

The chimes came again, melancholy with dis¬ 
tance, filling the sunny garden. She must hurry. 
They were ringing for eleven o’clock Church. 




316 A Pocketful of Poses 

It nearly broke her heart not to be able to write 
George a word of good-bye. She stumbled into 
the house. Hurry, hurry, while she was still numb! 
If she began to feel, she could never do it. 

For a moment she knelt by his chair, her face 
against its cool worn leather. “Dear God, please 
bless my George,’’ she said, and kissed the arm 
where his hand had been. 

She was sobbing as she gathered up her hat and 
her book and her apple. George would be home 
soon. She must hurry. She ran out of the house: 
Coco was after her, barking excitedly, expecting a 
game: when she tried to send him back, he would 
crouch down, quivering with delight, and then dart 
away. The glorious day had gone to the old dog’s 
head. She got him into the house at last, and he 
tried to lick the tears from her face as she said 
good-bye. 

She had happened to wear the cherry-coloured 
print again to-day. As she ran under the splendid 
blue crystal of the sky, through the green-gold 
meadow with its patches of foam-white daisies, she 
looked like all of Summer’s rapture concentrated in 
one slender vivid figure. 

Through the meadow, through the wood; plung¬ 
ing on and on, tripping over roots, her face whipped 
by branches, her dress torn by briers; at last she 
came out on the clearing on the top of the cliff, over¬ 
hanging the river. 


Posing for Marigold 317 

In spite of herself, she paused. She had meant 
to plunge over without giving herself time to think, 
but her feet turned to lead. She crawled closer to 
the edge, and looked over. 

She was on a ledge that stood out from the face 
of the cliff. Underneath were rocks and shale, and 
little pinetrees curving out to the river. She was 
so high that the pinetrees looked as tiny as the bits 
of green painted sponge in Noah’s Arks. 

She threw over a stone. It went bounding and 
tinkling down. 

All at once she knew that she had never really 
meant to kill herself. She had yielded to a volup¬ 
tuous despair, pacing in the garden, saying good-bye 
in her heart to George: but now she knew she could 
not kill herself. It had been another of her poses, 
a melodramatic play to her own gallery. Life 
flooded back to her, brilliant with sunlight, throb¬ 
bing and trembling with bird calls. Somehow, 
things would come all right again, in time. Laugh¬ 
ing and crying together, she said aloud absurdly: 
can go home to lunch!” She remembered that they 
were to have the first peas from the garden. She 
thought of green peas, of bread and butter, of forks, 
and spoons, and Katie’s broad red face—enchant- 
ingly reassuring things after her terror and despair. 

And George I She would see him again, talk with 
him, touch him, lie in his arms. How could she 



318 A Pocketful of Poses 

have thought that she could leave him^? George, 
who was light and air, George, who was God to her. 

Trembling all over in her reaction, she went bhck 
into the woods, away from the sight of the river, 
and lay down on the moss by the clear pouring of 
the little brook. She felt too spent ever to move 
again. She lay watching a white butterfly floating 
and quivering above her, and finally disappearing 
among the trees. Tears of relief poured down her 
cheeks as she whispered her husband’s name. 

She felt as if life had been given back to her 
after she had lost it; as if she had died, and risen 
again from the grave. With tears and prayers she 
made her solemn resolution never, never again to 
speak or act anything but the truth, so long as she 
lived. She was done with pose and pretence: she 
would never again indulge in even the mildest play 
to the gallery. When she pretended, she not only 
hurt herself, but hurt most bitterly those who were 
nearest to her. Because she had pretended, Donald 
was dead: Hugo (she thought with sad elation) 
broken-hearted—or, at least, she supposed he was: 
George hurt beyond healing. 

If only, on that dreadful evening, he had re¬ 
turned ten minutes earlier, when he would have 
found a decorous lady and gentleman talking about 
the flowering chestnut trees of Paris: or ten minutes 
later, when he would have found the lady, still 
a trifle breathless, but quite alone! In either case, 


319 


Podng for Marigold 

they would have lived happily ever after. Of 
course she would have told him that Hugo had 
kissed her; but seeing a thing happen and hearing 
about it are so different: particularly when the per¬ 
son who does the telling has had time to realize 
how uselessly painful some of the narrative would 
be. 

But he had seen, and probably he would never 
love her again with that shining splendour, that per¬ 
fect completeness, that they had known. Well, she 
must face that. She had done wrong, and she must 
atone for it. She thought of noble ladies who had 
sinned and suffered, and, taking the veil, had done 
penance all the rest of their lives, bringing blessing 
and brightness to the sick and poor, or, their lovely 
faces forever hidden from the world, had prayed 
without ceasing before the Crucifix. She could not 
go into a convent. She must stay in the world, 
facing ‘'the long littleness of life”; but in her heart 
she could be a religieuse. If the one heart she loved 
no longer needed her, there were other sad hearts 
that she could comfort. 

She might have all her dresses made of grey—or 
misty blue, perhaps—something like a nun’s habit, 
plain and simple; she was tired of vanities. 

She would begin her new life that afternoon, by 
taking in a basket of pansies to Miss Messie Hall, 
who had hurt her foot. Or perhaps a basket of peas 
would be better, although less picturesque. 


320 A Pocketful of Poses 

She got up, and walked slowly out of the wood 
and through the meadow. George, who had come 
home, and wanted his lunch, came down through 
the orchard to look for her. He caught sight of 
her scarlet dress, with the white foam of daisies 
breaking against it. The sun was bright on her 
shining, wind-ruffled hair, and she loitered, pen¬ 
sively eating the apple she had taken with her to 
give a natural look to her death. His heart gave 
a great throb of tenderness: after all, she was still 
such a child! He called her name, and waved his 
hand to her. 

Looking up, she returned his salutation, but a 
little absently: her eyes were dazzled for the mo¬ 
ment by a vision of herself, in mist-blue robes, kneel¬ 
ing before a dim Altar: brave, broken-hearted, and 
not without a wistful beauty. 


THE END 








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